y   Stories -of  Italy 


'X-'    %^  V- 


MM 


>\T"" 


^^^ 


i/< 


% 


"Books  that  you  may  carry 
I  to  the  fire,  and  hoi  J  readily 
1 1 II  yc^iir  hand,  are  the  most 
■useful  after  all  " 

— JOHNSON 


STORIES   OF  ITALY 


STORIES    FROM    SCRIBNER 

STORIES   OF  ITALY 


A 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNERS    SONS 

1893 


Copyright,  i8g^,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Trow  Print 


STORIES   OF  ITALY 

espero  gorgoni,  gondolier 
by  f.  hopkinson  smith 

The  Anatomist  of  the  Heart 
by  t.  r.  sullivan 

The  Song  of  the  Comforter 

BY   JOHN   J    A'BECKET 

The  House  on  the  Hilltop 

BY   grace    ELLERY   CHANNING 


1703845 


ESPERO     GORGONI 
GONDOLIER 

Bv  F.  HoPKiNsoN    Smith 
IVit/i  Illustrations  by  the  Author 


-A 


Poor  old  Ingenio — my  gondolier  of  five 
years  before — dear  old  Ingenio,  with  his 
white  hair  and  gentle  voice  ;  Ingenio  with 
the  little,  crippled  daughter  and  the  sad- 
faced  wife,  who  lived  near  the  church  be- 
hind the  Rialto,  had  made  his  last  cross- 
ing. At  least  the  sacristan  shook  his  head 
and  pointed  upward  when  I  sought  tidings 


STORIES    OF    ITALY 


of  him  ;  and  the  old,  familiar  door  with  the 
queer  gratings  was  locked,  and  the  win- 
dows cobwebbed  and  dust-begrimed. 

None  of  the  gondoliers  at  the  Rialto 
landing  knew,  nor  did  any  of  the  old  men 
at  the  water-steps  —  the  men  with  the 
hooked  staffs  who  steady  your  boat  while 
you  alight.  Five  years  was  so  very  long 
ago,  they  said,  and  then  there  had  been 
the  plague. 

So  I  looked  up  wistfully  at  the  windows 
of  the  old  palace  where  I  had  called  to 
him  so  often — I  can  see  him  now,  with  lit- 
tle Giulietta  in  his  arms,  peering  at  me 
through  the  gay,  climbing  flowers  which 
she  watered  so  carefully— looked  long  and 
wistfully,  as  if  he  must  surely  answer  back, 
"  ^V,  sio-/!flre,  immcdialamoitc,"  and  turned 
sadly  away. 

But  then  tliere  was  the  same  old  gon- 
dola-landing, blue  poles,  bridge,  and  all, 
with  its  flock  of  gondolas  hovering  around, 
and  a  dozen  lusty  fellows  ready  to  spring 


14  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

to  their  oars  and  serve  me  night  and  day 
for  a  pittance  that  elsewhere  a  man  would 
starve  on.  My  lucky  star  once  sent  me 
Ingenio,  who  floating  past  caught  my  sig- 
nal ;  why  not  another  ? 

This  is  why  I  am  on  the  quay  near  the 
Rialto  this  lovely  morning,  in  Venice,  over- 
looking the  gondolas  curving  in  and  out, 
and  watching  the  faces  of  the  gondoliers 
as  with  uplifted  hands,  like  a  row  of  whips, 
they  call  out  their  respective  numbers  and 
qualifications. 

In  my  experience  there  is  nothing  like  a 
gondola  to  paint  from,  especially  in  the 
summer  —  and  it  is  the  summer  time. 
Then  all  these  Venetian  cabs  are  gay  in 
their  sunshiny  attire,  and  have  laid  aside 
their  dark,  hooded  cloaks,  their  rainy- 
day  mackintoshes  —  their /c/si  —  and  have 
pulled  over  their  shoulders  a  frail  awning 
of  creamy  white,  wath  snowy  draperies  at 
sides  and  back,  under  which  you  paint  in 


ESPERO    GORGONI,  GONDOLIER        15 

State  or  lounge  luxuriously,  drinking  in 
the  beauty  about  you. 

I  have  in  my  wanderings  tried  all  sorts 
of  moving  studios  :  tar  tanas  in  Spain, 
volatites  in  Cuba,  broad-sailed  luggers  in 
Holland,  mules  in  Mexico,  and  cabs 
everywhere.  One  I  remember  with  de- 
light— an  old  night-hawk  in  Amsterdam — 
that  offered  me  not  only  its  front  seat  for 
my  easel,  its  arm-rest  for  my  water-bottle, 
and  a  pocket  in  the  door-flap  for  brushes 
(I  am  hkely  to  expect  all  these  conven- 
iences in  even  the  most  disreputable  of 
cabs),  but  insisted  on  giving  me  the  ad- 
ditional luxury  of  a  knot-hole  in  its  floor 
for  waste  water. 

But  with  all  this  a  cab  is  not  a  gondola. 

In  a  gondola  you  are  never  shaken  by 
the  tired  beast  resting  his  other  leg,  nor 
by  the  small  boy  who  looks  in  at  the  win- 
dow, nor  by  the  cabby,  who  falls  asleep 
on  the  box  and  awakes  periodically  with  a 
start  that  repeats  a  shiver  through  your 


l6  STORIES   OF    ITALY 


brush  hand,  and  a  corresponding  wave- 
line  across  your  sky. 

In  place  of  this  there  is  only  a  cosey 
curtain-closed  nest— a  little  boudoir  with 
down  cushions  and  silk  fringes  and  soft 
morocco  coverings,  kept  afloat  by  a  long, 
lithe,  swan-like,  moving  boat,  black  as 
an  Inquisitor's  gown  save  for  the  dain- 
ty awning ;  a  something  bearing  itself 
proudly  with  head  high  in  air — alive  or 
still,  alert  or  restful,  and  obedient  to  your 
lightest  touch — half  sea-gull  revelling  in 
the  sunlight,  half  dolphin  cutting  the  dark 
water. 

If  you  are  hurried,  and  the  splash  of  the 
oar  comes  quick  and  strong,  in  an  instant 
your  gondola  quivers  with  the  excitement 
of  the  chase.  You  feci  the  thrill  through 
its  entire  length  as  it  strains  every  nerve ; 
the  touch  of  the  oar,  like  the  touch  of  the 
spur,  urging  it  to  its  best.  If  you  would 
rest,  and  so  slip  into  some  dark  waterway 
under  the  shadow  of  overhanging  lialcony 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       I7 

or  mouldy  palace  wall,  your  water-swal- 
low becomes  a  very  lasagnone,  and  will  go 
sound  asleep,  and  for  hours,  or  loll  lazily, 
the  little  waves  lapping  about  its  bow. 

In  Venice  my  gondola  is  always  my 
home,  and  my  gondolier  always  my  best 
friend ;  and  so  when  my  search  for  In- 
genio  ended  only  in  a  cobwebbed  door 
and  an  abandoned  balcony,  and  that 
mournful  shake  of  the  sacristan's  head, 
and  I  stood  scanning  anxiously  the  up- 
turned faces  below  me,  it  was  some  min- 
utes before  I  selected  his  successor  and 
returned  Espero's  signal. 

I  cannot  say  why  I  singled  him  out,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  that  he  did  not  press  for- 
ward with  the  rest,  rushing  his  bow  ahead  ; 
but  rather  held  back,  giving  his  place  to  a 
gray-headed  old  gondolier,  who  in  his 
haste  had  muffed  his  oar  awkwardly,  at 
which  the  others  laughed. 

Perhaps,  too,  it  might  have  been  his 
frank,    handsome,     young    face,  with   its 


l8  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

merry,  black  eyes  ;  or  the  inviting  look  of 
the  cushions  beneath  the  white  awning, 
with  the  bit  of  a  rug  on  the  floor  ;  or  the 
picturesque  effect  of  the  whole  ;  or  all  of 
them  together,  that  caught  my  eye.  Or 
it  might  have  been  the  perfect  welding 
together  of  man  and  boat.  For,  as  he 
stood  erect  in  the  sunlight,  twisting  the 
gondola  with  his  oar,  his  loose  shirt,  with 
throat  and  chest  bare  in  highest  light 
against  the  dark  water,  his  head  bound 
with  a  red  kerchief,  his  well-knit,  grace- 
ful figure  swaying  in  the  movement  of  the 
whole,  blending  with  and  yet  controlling 
it,  both  man  and  boat  seemed  but  parts 
of  one  organism,  a  sort  of  marine  Centaur, 
as  free  and  frearless  as  that  wonderful 
myth  of  the  olden  time.  \\niatever  it 
was,  my  lucky  star  peeped  out  at  the 
opportune  moment,  and  the  next  instant 
my  sketch-traps  were  tumbled  m. 

"  To  the  Salute  !" 

The  gondolier  threw  himself  on  his  oar, 


ESPERO    GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       I9 

the  sensitive  craft  quivered  at  the  touch, 
and  we  glided  out  upon  the  broad  waters 
of  the  Grand  Canal. 

Nowhere  else  in  the  wide  world  is  there 
such  a  sight.  A  double  row  of  creamy- 
white  palaces  tiled  in  red  and  topped 
with  quaint  chimneys.  Overhanging  bal- 
conies of  marble,  fringed  with  flowers, 
with  gay  awnings  above  and  streaming 
shadows  below.  Two  lines  of  narrow 
quays  crowded  with  people  flashing  bright 
bits  of  color  in  the  blazing  sun.  Swarms 
of  gondolas,  barcos,  and  lesser  water- 
spiders  darting  in  and  out.  Lazy  red- 
sailed  luggers,  melon-loaded,  with  crin- 
kled green  shadows  crawling  beneath  their 
bows ;  while  at  the  far  end  over  the  glis- 
tening highway,  beaded  with  people, 
curves  the  beautiful  bridge — an  ivory  arch 
against  a  turquoise  sky. 

Espero  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  skimming 
boats,  dodging  the  little  steamers  puffing 
away  all  out  of  breath  with  their  run  from 


STORIES   OF   ITALY 


the  Lido,  shot  his  boat  into  a  narrow 
canal,  and  out  again  upon  the  broad 
water,  until  the  edge  of  her  steel  blade 
touched  the  water-stairs  of  the  Salute. 

This  beautiful  church  is  always  my 
rendezvous.  It  is  half-way  to  everything : 
to  the  Public  Garden  ;  across  the  Giudec- 
ca ;  away  over  to  the  Lagoon  where  the 
fishermen  live  ;  to  the  Rialto  and  beyond. 

In  the  freshness  of  the  morning,  when 
its  lovely  dome  throws  a  cool  shadow 
across  its  piazza,  there  is  no  better  place 
for  a  painter  to  make  up  his  mind  as  to 
where  he  would  work.  Mine  required  but 
a  few  minutes  ;  I  would  paint  near  the 
Fondimenta  della  Pallada ;  a  narrow, 
short  canal  where  the  fishermen  moor 
their  boats. 

"  What  is  your  name,  gondolier?  " 

"  Espero  Gorgoni." 

The  voice  was  sweet  and  musical,  and 
the  answer  was  given  with  a  turn  of  the 
head  as  graceful  as  it  was  free. 


"  Do  you  know  the  Pallada  ?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Stop,  then,  where  the  crab-baskets  are 
moored  to  the  poles." 

A  turn  of  the  wrist,  a  long,  bending 
sweep  of  the  oar  across  the  Giudecca, 
and  we  enter  a  waterway  leading  to 
the  Lagoon.  Here  live  the  fishermen,  in 
great,  rambling  houses  three  and  four 
stories  high  —  warehouses  probably  in  the 
old  days  —  running  sheer  into  the  water. 


STORIES    OF    ITALY 


Outside  of  the  lower  windows  lie  their 
boats,  with  gay-colored  sails,  and  next  to 
these  stand  a  row  of  poles  anchoring  the 
huge  wicker  crab-  and  fish-baskets  filled 
with  their  early  morning  catch. 

Espero  ran  the  gondola  behind  a  pro- 
tecting sail,  and  in  five  minutes  I  was  at 
work. 

The  experience  was  not  new  to  him.  I 
saw  that  from  the  way  he  opened  the  awn- 
ing on  the  proper  side,  unstrapped  my 
easel,  and  spread  out  the  contents  of  my 
trap  on  the  cushions,  which  he  reversed  to 
protect  from  waste  water ;  and  from  the 
way  he  stepped  ashore,  so  that  my  gon- 
dola should  lie  perfectly  still,  joining 
later  a  group  of  children  who  were  watch- 
ing me  from  the  doorway  above.  (Half 
an  hour  after  they  were  laughing  at 
his  stories,  the  two  youngest  in  his  lap. 
A  considerate,  good-natured  fellow,  I 
thought,  this  gondolier  of  mine,  and 
fond  of  children  ;  and  I  kept  at  work. 


ESPERO    GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       23 

When  the  fisherman  awoke  and  came 
down  to  make  ready  his  boat  for  the 
morning,  and  I  began  the  customary  pro- 
test about  the  lowering  of  the  sail,  thus 
spoiling  my  sketch,  Espero  sprang  up, 
locked  his  arm  through  that  of  the  in- 
truder, and  led  him  gently  back  into  the 
house,  calling  to  me,  five  minutes  there- 
after, from  across  the  canal,  to  keep  at 
work  and  not  to  hurry,  as  the  fisherman 
and  he  would  have  a  mouthful  of  wine 
together.  And  a  man  of  tact,  too  !  Real- 
ly, if  my  gondolier  develops  like  this,  I 
shall  not  miss  Ingenio  so  much. 

The  next  day  we  were  across  the  La- 
goon, and  the  day  following  up  the  Giu- 
decca,  by  the  storehouses  where  the  light- 
ers unload,  and  before  the  week  was  out 
I  had  fallen  into  my  old  habits  and  was 
sharing  my  breakfast  and  my  cigarette- 
case  with  my  gondolier,  who,  day  by  day, 
won  his  way  by  some  new  trait  of  useful- 
ness or  some  new  charm  of  manner. 


24  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

Oh,  these  breakfasts  in  the  gondola  in 
the  early  morning  ;  the  soft,  fresh  air  of 
the  sea  in  your  face,  the  cool  plash  of  the 
water  in  your  ears !  On  the  floor  of  the 
boat,  smoking  hot,  rests  the  little  copper 
coffee-pot ;  above  in  the  wooden  side- 
pockets,  your  store  of  fruit  and  rolls. 
With  what  a  waste  and  recklessness  is  the 
melon  split  and  quartered,  and  the  half- 
eaten  crescents  thrown  overboard  !  What 
savory  fish !  What  delicious  bread ! 
What  luscious  figs  !  And  yet  Espero  had 
gathered  them  all  up  at  a  caffe,  a  fruit- 
stand,  and  a  baker's  ;  and  a  bit  of  silver 
no  larger  than  my  thumb-nail  had  paid 
for  it  all. 

When  the  wind  freshens  and  the  boats 
from  Chioggia  begin  spreading  their  sails, 
Espero  turns  his  prow  toward  the  Public 
Garden  —  their  mooring-ground  —  and  we 
follow  them  out  over  the  broad  water  until 
my  sketch-book  is  filled  with  their  varying 


9H 


26  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

forms  and  colors.  On  our  way  back  we 
board  the  wood  boats,  drifting  in  with  the 
tide,  or  land  under  the  old  garden-walls, 
which  Espero  scales,  regaining  the  gon- 
dola loaded  with  flowers,  which  he  fes- 
toons over  the  awning,  trailing  the  blos- 
soming vines  in  the  water  behind.  Or  we 
circle  about  the  Salute,  composing  it  now 
on  the  right,  with  some  lighter  boats  in 
the  distance  ;  now  on  the  left,  with  the 
Dogana  and  the  stretch  of  palaces  be- 
yond. Or  we  haunt  the  churches,  lis- 
tening to  the  music,  or  follow  with  our 
eyes  the  slender,  graceful  Venetians  who 
come  and  go. 

In  all  these  rambles  there  was  one  little, 
crooked  canal  near  the  Salute  that,  what- 
ever our  course,  Espero  always  dodged 
into.  Long  -way  around  or  short  way 
over,  it  was  always  the  same.  Somehow 
Espero  must  get  into  this  waterway  to  get 
out  somewhere  else.  At  last  I  caught  him. 
She  wore  a  yellow  silk  handkerchief  tied 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       27 

under  her  pretty  chin  and  was  waving  her 
hand  from  a  balcony  filled  with  oleanders 
high  up  on  the  wall  of  a  crumbling  old 
palace.     These  were  our  days  ! 

Then  came  the  twilights,  with  palace, 
tower,  and  dome  purple  in  the  fading 
light,  the  canal  all  molten  gold,  the  gon- 
dolas, with  lamps  alight,  gliding  like  fire- 
flies. 

On  one  of  these  purple-laden  twilights 
we  had  floated  over  to  San  Giorgio, 
moored  the  gondola  to  a  great  iron  ring 
in  the  water-soaked  steps  that  might  once 
have  held  a  slave-laden  galley,  and  had 
sat  down  to  watch  the  darkness  as  it  slow- 
ly settled  over  the  dreaming  city.  Away 
off  to  the  right  stood  the  Campanile,  its 
cone-shaped  top  pink  and  gold,  while 
behind,  against  the  deepening  blue,  rose 
its  twin  tower. 

The  scene  awoke  all  the  old  memories, 
and  I  began  talking  to  Espero,  who  was 
stretched  out  on  the  marble  steps  below 


28  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

me,  of  the  olden  times  when  this  same 
harbor  was  full  of  ships  of  every  clime, 
with  sails  of  gold  and  cargoes  of  spice,  and 
of  the  great  regattas,  and  the  two-decked 
war  barges,  with  slaves  double-banked 
rowing  beneath ;  and  from  this  to  the 
wonderful  Bucentaur,  the  Doge's  barge, 
encrusted  with  gold,  rowed  by  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Arsenalotti — a  sort  of  guild  or 
corporation  formed  of  the  workmen  at 
the  Arsenal.  How,  every  year,  occurred 
the  ceremony  of  the  Espousal  of  the 
Adriatic,  and  how,  when  the  Bucentaur 
returned,  there  was  a  grand  banquet,  at 
which  the  Arsenalotti  dined  at  the  public 
expense,  with  the  privilege  of  carrying  off 
everythmg  on  the  table — even  the  linen, 
vessels,  and  glass, 

Espero's  attitude  and  face,  as  he  lis- 
tened, led  me  on.  He  had  an  odd  way  of 
lifting  his  eyebrows  quickly  when  I  told 
him  something  that  interested  him  —  a 
questioning,    yet   deferential   expression, 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       29 

which  I  generally  accepted  as  a  tribute 
to  my  superior  intelligence.  He  never 
formulated  it  in  words.  It  was  only  one 
of  the  many  flashes  that  swept  over  his 
face,  but  it  was  always  a  grateful  en- 
couragement. 

And  so,  with  the  glamour  of  the  scene 
about  me,  and  with  Espero's  eyes  fastened 
on  mine,  his  well-shaped  head  clear  cut 
against  the  fading  sky,  I  rambled  on,  tell- 
ing him  of  those  things  I  thought  would 
please  him  the  most.  Of  how  these 
Arsenalotti  became  gondoliers,  joining  the 
Castellani  —  the  gondoliers  at  that  time 
being  divided  into  two  parties,  the  Castel- 
lani, who  wore  red  hoods,  and  the  Nicol- 
letti,  who  wore  black  hoods.  Of  how 
these  Castellani  were  aristocrats  and  had 
portioned  out  to  them  the  eastern  part  of 
the  city  where  the  Doge  lived,  his  resi- 
dence being  in  the  Piazza  of  San  Marco  ; 
while  the  Nicolletti  were  only  publicans. 
That,  besides  attending  to    the  Doge  in 


30  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

public,  many  of  these  Castellani  had 
served  him  in  private,  thus  being  of  great 
service  to  the  state. 

Espero  hstened  to  every  word,  raising 
his  head  and  looking  at  me  curiously  when 
I  mentioned  the  Castellani,  and  laughing 
outright  at  my  description  of  the  banquet 
tables  in  the  hands  of  the  Arsenalotti. 
Nothing  else  dropped  from  his  lips  except 
the  grim  remark  that  if  he  had  lived  in 
those  days  he  would,  perhaps,  have  owned 
his  own  gondola,  and  not  have  had  to  use 
his  grandfather's,  who  was  now  too  old  to 
row.  I  remembered  afterward  that  a  cer- 
tain thoughtful  expression  overspread  his 
face,  as  if  my  talk  had  awakened  some 
memory  of  his  own. 

A  passing  music-boat  cut  short  my  dis- 
sertation, and  in  a  moment  more  we  were 
following  in  its  wake,  threading  our  way 
in  and  out  of  the  tangle  of  gondolas 
massed  about  it.  Then  a  twist  of  the  oar, 
and  Espero  glided  alongside  the  lantern- 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       3I 

hung  barge  and  leaned  over  to  speak  to 
the  leader.  The  musicians  were  going  to 
the  Piazza,  would  I  care  to  hear  them  sing 
under  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ? 

In  five  minutes  we  had  picked  our  way- 
through  the  labyrinth  of  surrounding  gon- 
dolas, and  in  five  more  had  entered  the 
close,  narrow  canal,  where  the  beautiful 
bridge,  buttressed  by  two  great  masses  of 
gloom — the  palace  and  the  prison— over- 
hung the  sluggish,  sullen  water. 

There  is  never  a  lantern  now  along  this 
weird  and  grewsome  waterway.  One  only 
sees  the  twinkling  lamps  of  the  gondolas, 
like  will-o'-the-wisps,  drift  past — the  boats 
themselves  lost  in  the  blackness  of  the 
shadows— the  glimmer  of  the  pale  light  of 
some  slow-moving  barge,  or  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  stars  above.  All  else  is  dark 
and  ghostly. 

The  music-boat  drifted  sideways,  and 
the  bass-viol,  who  was  standing,  twisted  a 
lisfht   cord   throuq-h   an   iron   ring   in   the 


32  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

slimy,  ooze-colored  palace.  Espero  drifted 
against  the  opposite  wall — the  prison. 

"  What  shall  they  sing,  signor?  " 

"  As  you  please,  Espero." 

I  have  heard  the  Miserere  chanted  at 
dead  of  night  in  the  streets  of  an  old  Ital- 
ian town,  the  flare  of  the  torches  lighting 
the  upturned  face  of  the  ghastly  dead  ; 
my  eyes  have  filled  when,  with  knee  to 
marble  floor,  I  have  listened  to  the  pathos 
of  its  harmonies  sighing  through  the 
many -pillared  mosque  of  Cordova;  I 
have  drunk  in  its  cadences  in  curtained 
alcoves  with  the  breath  of  waving  fans 
and  flash  of  gems  about  me  ;  but  never 
has  its  grandeur  and  majesty  so  stirred  my 
imagination  and  entranced  my  soul  as  on 
this  night  in  Venice,  under  the  deep  blue 
of  the  soft  Italian  sky,  the  frowning,  blood- 
stained palace  above,  the  treacherous  si- 
lent water  beneath. 

I  could  stretch  out  my  hand  and  touch 
the  very  stones  that  had  coffined  the  liv- 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       33 

ing  dead.  I  could  look  down  into  the 
same  depths  along  the  edge  of  the  water- 
soaked  marble  where  had  lain  the  head- 
less body,  with  sack  and  cord,  awaiting 
the  sure  current  of  the  changing  tide  ; 
and  from  my  cushions  in  the  listing 
gondola  I  could  see,  high  up  against  the 
blue  in  the  starlight,  the  same  narrow 
window  in  the  fatal  arch,  through  which 
the  hopeless  had  caught  a  last  glimpse  of 
light  and  life. 

When  the  last  low  strains  had  died 
away,  Espero  raised  himself  erect,  walked 
slowly  the  length  of  the  gondola,  and, 
bending  down,  said  in  a  voice  tremulous 
with  emotion:  "  Signor,  did  your  hear 
the  tramp  of  the  poor  fellows  over  the 
bridge,  and  the  moans  of  the  men  dying 
under  the  wall  ?  Holy  God !  Was  it 
not  terrible  ?  " 

At  that  instant  the  barge  floated  past. 
I  looked  at  him  in  wonder — Espero's  eyes 
w^ere  full  of  tears  ! 


34  STORIES   OP   ITALY 

This  man  began  to  interest  me  in- 
tensely. Only  an  every-day,  plain,  Ve- 
netian gondolier,  in  a  blue  shirt,  and 
patched  at  that,  with  hardly  a  franc  he 
could  call  his  own,  and  yet  there  was 
something  about  him  that  made  his  pres- 
ence a  delight.  It  was  not  the  graceful 
swing  of  his  beautiful  body,  nor  his  musi- 
cal laugh,  nor  his  honest  kindness  to  every 
human  being.  It  was  rather  an  unde- 
fined, courteous,  well-bred  independence. 

When  it  came  to  rowing  a  gondola,  it 
never  seemed  to  me  that  he  rowed  be- 
cause it  was  his  duty  and  his  livelihood. 
He  rowed  because  he  loved  it,  and  be- 
cause he  loved  the  sunshine  across  his 
face  and  the  flash  of  the  water  on  his  oar- 
blade — the  swing  and  freedom  of  it  all. 
My  happening  to  be  a  passenger  was  but 
one  of  those  necessary  evils  attending  the 
earning  and  payment  of  five  francs  a  day. 
And  yet,  not  altogether  an  evil ;  for  he 
loved  me,  too,  as  lie  did  everything  else 


ESPERO    GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       35 

that  brought  him  companionship  and  air 
and  light  and  life. 

Nothing  seemed  to  tire  him.  Day  or 
night,  or  all  night,  if  I  wished  it — for  of- 
ten we  were  whole  nights  together  in  the 
soft  summer  air,  floating  back  to  the  sleep- 
ing city  in  the  gray  dawn,  stopping  to  listen 
to  early  mass  at  the  Pieta,  or  following  the 
fruit-boats  or  fishermen  in  from  the  Lido. 

And  thus  it  was  that  we  ransacked 
Venice  from  San  Giorgio  to  Murano ; 
and  thus  it  was  that  every  day  I  caught 
some  fresh  glimpse  of  the  sweetness  of 
his  inner  nature,  and  every  day  loved  him 
the  better.  Nobody  could  have  helped 
it.  There  was  that  touch  about  him  one 
could  not  resist.  Once  on  the  Giudecca, 
when  the  sea  was  polished  steel  and  the 
tide  turning  ebb,  Espero  ran  the  gondola 
up  under  the  lee  of  a  melon-boat,  its  sail 
limp  and  useless  in  the  breathless  air, 
sprang  over  her  rail,  caught  the  oar  from 
the  captain,  fagged  out  with  the  long  pull 


^6  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

from  the  Lido,  and  threw  his  weight 
against  the  drooping  blade.  And  all  this 
with  a  laugh  and  a  twist  of  his  foot  in 
pirouette,  as  if  it  was  the  merriest  fun  in 
the  world  to  save  a  tide  and  a  market 
for  a  man  he  had  never  seen  in  his  life 
before. 

On  another  morning  he  was  just  in 
time  to  save  Beppo  from  a  plunge  over- 
board— old  Beppo  who  for  centuries  (no- 
body knows  how  old  Beppo  is)  has  hooked 
his  staff  into  myraids  of  gondolas  land- 
ing at  the  Salute  steps.  It  had  happened 
that  some  other  mediaeval  ruin,  a  few 
years  Beppo's  junior,  had  crowded  the 
old  man  from  his  place,  and  Espero's 
righteous  wrath  was  not  appeased  until 
he  had  driven  the  usurper  from  the  piazza 
of  the  church,  with  the  parting  reminder 
that  he  would  break  every  bone  in  his 
withered  old  skin  if  he  ever  caught  him 
there  again. 

And  yet,  with  all  my  opportunities  for 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       37 

intimacy,  I  really  got  no  nearer  to  the 
inner  side  of  Espero  than  the  day  I  hired 
him.  To  him  I  was  still  only  the  painter 
from  over  the  sea,  his  patron,  to  whom  he 
was  loyal,  good-natured,  happy-hearted, 
and  obliging ;  but  nothing  more.  Noth- 
ing more  was  for  sale  for  five  francs  a  day. 
What  his  home  or  life  might  be  outside 
the  hours  I  called  my  own,  I  knew  no 
more  than  of  the  hundred  other  gondo- 
liers who  filled  the  canal  with  their  cries 
and  their  laughter.  The  one  sole  con- 
necting link  was  the  pretty  Venetian  of 
the  little,  crooked  canal,  who  waved  her 
hand  whenever  we  passed,  and  who  once 
tossed  down  a  spray  of  oleander  which  fell 
at  his  feet ;  and  yet  I  could  not  even  have 
found  her  doonvay,  much  less  have  told 
her  name. 

One  beautiful,  bright  Sunday  morning, 
perplexed  at  this  unequal  exchange  of 
confidences,  this  idea  took  possession  of 
me.     Espero  and  I   would  breakfast  to- 


38  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

gether — blue  shirt,  patch,  and  all !  Not 
as  we  had  often  breakfasted  before,  in  the 
gondola  under  the  shadow  of  a  palace,  or 
down  by  the  stalls  of  the  fruit-market ;  but 


at  the  great  Caffe  Florian,  in  the  Piazza 
of  San  Marco,  at  twelve  o'clock  high 
noon,  in  the  midst  of  gold  embroidered 
officers  with  clanking  swords  and  waxed 
mustaches,  and  ladies  of  high  degree  in 
dainty  gowns  and  veils. 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       39 

"  Leave  the  gondola,  Espero,  in  charge 
of  somebody,  and  come  with  me  !  " 

We  twisted  our  way  through  the  narrow 
shts  of  streets,  choked  with  awnings  shad- 
ing groups  of  Venetians  sipping  their 
coffee,  dodged  under  an  archway,  across 
a  narrow  bridge,  and  so  out  upon  the 
bhnding,  baking  Piazza,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  hurrying  figures,  dogged  by 
ink-spilled  shadows. 

"Breakfast  for  two!"  I  said  to  the 
startled  waiter.  "Take  the  seat  by  the 
window,  Espero !  " 

His  face  lighted  up,  and  an  expression 
of  the  greatest  happiness  and  good  humor 
overspread  it.  But  that  was  all.  There 
was  no  sign  of  humility  ;  nothing  indicat- 
ing that  I  had  done  him  a  kindness  or  had 
conferred  upon  him  any  special  favor. 
He  merely  pointed  to  himself,  and  then  to 
the  seat,  as  if  making  quite  sure,  saying, 
"  Me,  signor?"  and  then  sat  himself  down, 
spreading  his  napkin,  and  all  with  the  air 


40  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

of  a  man  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  thing 
every  day  of  his  life. 

I  ordered  nearly  everything  on  the  bill 
of  fare — fish,  eggs,  salad,  broiled  cutlet, 
fruit,  even  a  bottle  of  Chianti,  with  silk 
tassels  on  its  neck.  Espero  took  each  in 
its  course  with  the  easy  grace  of  a  Ches- 
terfield and  the  quiet  refinement  of  a  man 
of  the  world. 

The  only  person  who  put  his  astonish- 
ment into  words  was  the  head  waiter,  who 
caught  his  breath  when  I  lighted  Espero's 
cigarette  myself,  recounting  to  his  assist- 
ant, and  adding,  "  Ma  foi,  what  funny 
people  these  painters  !  " 

An  hour  later  we  were  again  afloat, 
embarking  at  the  water-steps  of  the  Pi- 
azza. 

Just  here,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all 
our  intercourse,  I  noticed  a  change  in 
Espero's  bearing.  The  touch  of  humility 
— it  had  been  only  a  trace,  and,  as  I 
always  knew,  only  assumed  that   I  might 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       4I 

see  he  recognized  the  obligation  of  five 
francs — even  that  slight  touch  was  gone. 

The  change  was  not  one  that  betokened 
presuming  familiarity,  as  if  all  social  bar- 
riers having  now  been  swept  away  he 
would  insist  upon  sharing  with  me  every- 
thing I  owned.  It  was  more  the  manner 
of  a  man  clothed  with  the  responsibilities 
of  a  host  ;  a  welcoming,  generous,  appro- 
priating manner.  Heretofore,  when  I 
had  stepped  into  the  gondola,  Espero 
invariably  offered  me  his  bent  elbow  to 
steady  myself;  but  now  he  gave  me  his 
hand. 

Furthermore,  he  did  not  wait  for  in- 
structions as  to  where  the  prow  of  the  gon- 
dola should  be  pointed.  He  said,  in- 
stead : 

"  There  is  a  famous  old  Cortile  that  I 
must  show  you.  All  the  artists  paint  it. 
We  will  go  now  !  " 

With  this  he  shot  past  our  customary 
landing-place,  entered  the  little,  crooked 


42  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

canal,  and  rounded  the  gondola  in  front 
of  an  old  marble  archway  curiously  carved. 

I  began  to  wonder  at  the  change  that 
had  come  over  him.  What  was  there 
about  this  Cortile?  If  everybody  had 
painted  it,  why  should  he  have  kept  it 
hidden  all  summer  from  me  ? 

Espero's  manner  at  this  landing  was,  if 
anything,  more  expressive  than  at  the 
last;  for,  after  securing  the  gondola,  he 
waved  his  hand  graciously  and  led  me 
along  a  damp,  tunnel-like  passage,  until 
we  stepped  into  an  abandoned  cloister, 
once  the  most  beautiful  Cortile  in  Ven- 
ice. 

When  we  entered  the  sun  was  blazing 
against  the  opposite  wall,  the  nearer  col- 
umns standing  out  strong  and  dark.  In 
the  square,  bounded  by  the  low  wall  sup- 
porting the  pillars,  which  in  turn  supported 
the  living-rooms  above,  climbing  vines 
and  grasses  ran  riot,  while  in  the  centre 
of  the  tangled  mass  of  weeds  stood  an  old 


44  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

covered  well,  at  which  a  girl  was  filling 
her  copper  water-pail. 

Espero  watched  my  delight  at  its  pict- 
uresqueness,  laughing  outright  at  my  de- 
termination to  begin  work  at  once,  and 
then,  with  great  deference,  led  me  to  a 
doorway  level  with  the  flagging  of  the 
mouldy  pavement.  Here  he  rang  a  bell 
hung  on  the  outside.  The  next  instant  a 
shutter  opened  above  and  a  pair  of  black 
eyes  peered  out  from  between  some  pots 
of  oleanders.  It  was  the  same  face  I  had 
seen  so  often  smiling  at  Espero  from  an 
upper  balcony.  The  cloister  evidently 
abutted  on  the  little,  crooked  canal.  This, 
then,  was  what  he  was  hiding  !  But  surely 
he  could  not  have  thought  that  I  would 
have  stolen  his  sweetheart ! 

Another  moment  and  the  door  was 
opened  by  the  same  pretty  Venetian,  who 
ushered  us  into  a  square  hall  having  a 
broad  staircase  which  led  to  the  floor 
above.     Here,  on   the   wainscoted   walls, 


ESPERO   GORGONI,  GONDOLIER       45 

half-way  to  the  ceihng,  hung  a  collection 
of  old  portraits,  each  one  a  delight  to  the 
eye  of  a  painter.  They  were  of  men,  cos- 
tumed in  the  time  of  the  later  Doges — one 
in  scarlet  and  black,  another  in  a  robe  of 
deep  blue,  while  a  third  wore  a  semi-mili- 
tary uniform  and  carried  a  short  sword. 

They  all  had  one  distinguishing  feature : 
each  head  was  covered  by  a  bright  red 
hood. 

Espero  never  took  his  eyes  from  my 
face  as  I  looked  about  me  in  astonishment, 
not  even  long  enough  to  salute  the  pretty 
Venetian  who  stood  smiling  at  his  side. 

"  Who  lives  here,  Espero  ?  " 

"  My  grandfather,  signor,  who  is  very 
old,  hves  on  this  floor.  My  little  wife, 
Mariana,"  turning  to  the  pretty  Vene- 
tian, "and  I  live  on  the  floor  above;" 
and  he  kissed  the  girl  on  the  forehead  and 
laid  her  hand  in  mine. 

"And  these  portraits " 

"  Are  some  of  the  famous  gondoliers  of 


46  STORIES    OF    ITALY 

old.  This  one  was  chief  of  the  Arsen- 
alotti,  and  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
Doge." 

"And  the  others  ?  " 

Espero's  eyes  twinkled,  and  a  quizzical, 
half-triumphant  smile  broke  over  his  face. 

"These  are  all  my  ancestors,  signor. 
"We  have  been  gondoliers  for  two  hun- 
dred years.     I  am  a  Castellani !  " 


THE   ANATOMIST   OF  THE 
HEART 

By  T.  R.  Slllivan- 
IFz't/i  Illustrations  by  Albert  Lynch 


Thou,  stubborn  heart,  thyself  hast  willed  it  so  ! 
Happy  wouldst  thou  be,  forever  happy, 
Or  forever  desolate,  stubborn  heart, 
And  desolate  thou  art  now. 

Heine. 

An  hour  after  sundown  on  a  summer 
evening,  when  the  last  note  of  the  second 
Ave  Maria^  called,  of  the  dead,  has  died 
aw^ay,  there  is  commonly  no  quieter  and 
more  unfrequented  quarter  in  all  Venice 
than  the  long  reach  of  the  Grand  Canal 
between  the  Rialto  Bridge  and  the  Pa- 
lazzo Foscari.  Now  and  then  the  lantern 
of  some  sohtary  gondola  skims  noiselessly 
over  its  dark  surface  like  a  luminous  water- 
fly.  But  the  business  of  the  day  has 
ceased,  and  the  great  barges  of  traffic  are 
tied  up  for  the  night ;  the  lines  of  palace- 
front  with  their  clustered  arches  and  splen- 


50  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

dors  of  carving  that  shine  out  as  miracles 
in  the  daytime  now  look  frowningly,  blend- 
ing all  beauty  of  detail  in  uniform  black- 
ness. No  hospitable  light  steals  through 
their  closed  shutters  ;  for  the  owners  are 


all  absent,  each  under  his  vine  and  fig- 
tree  among  the  mountains  of  the  mainland. 
The  stranger  seeking  pleasure  is  drawn 
for  it  in  other  directions — to  the  music  on 
the  Piazza  or  at  the  gate  of  the  royal 
palace.  Nothing  can  be  found  here  but 
night  and  the  stars  and  the  peculiarly  de- 


THE   ANATOMIST    OF   THE   HEART      51 

pressing  solitude  of  a  deserted  thorough- 
fare. 

On  rare  occasions,  however,  the  Munic- 
ipality undertakes  to  change  all  this  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  people.  The  simple 
contrivance  that  effects  the  transformation 
is  unknown  outside  of  Venice,  for  the 
conditions  existing  there  and  there  only  are 
essential  to  its  success.  An  illuminated 
raft  with  a  military  band  upon  it  is  drawn 
slowly  down  through  all  these  solemn  pre- 
cincts and  beyond  them,  by  the  great 
portico  of  the  Salute  Church  and  the  fickle 
Fortuna  who  turns  her  face  toward  every 
breeze  that  blows,  to  the  point  where  the 
Canal  Grande  widens  out  into  the  lagoon. 
Around  the  raft  as  it  moves  downward 
many  gondolas  gather  like  a  flock  of  sea- 
birds  in  a  steamer's  wake  disputing  for 
places,  losing  and  regaining  them,  while 
the  music  plays,  and  one  after  another  the 
ancient  houses  light  up  with  colored  fires. 
Nature  and  the  arts  combine  thus  to  give 


52  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

this  fresco,  as  it  is  fitly  named,  a  never- 
failing  charm  that  defies  description.  One 
who  knows  the  background  may  easily 
supply  the  rest  for  himself,  yet  the  live- 
liest imagination,  fortified  by  all  augmen- 
tatives  and  superlatives  known  to  the  Ital- 
ian tongue,  if  bent  upon  recording  the 
scene  would  do  it  scanty  justice. 

The  first  fresco  of  the  season  had  been 
announced  for  the  night  of  the  Festa  Na- 
zionale,  early  in  June.  *  The  rosy  tints  of 
sunset  faded  from  a  cloudless  sky,  and  as 
the  gray  twilight  drew  on  all  was  bustle 
and  expectation  around  the  huge  archway 
of  the  Rialto.  Overhead,  an  eager  throng 
lined  the  parapet,  and  at  the  cafe  below 
red  wine  flickered  in  a  hundred  glasses. 
All  the  tables  were  full,  even  to  the  water's 
edge,  the  amiable,  chattering  crowd  being 
made  up  as  usual  of  both  sexes,  young 
and  old  together.  The  joys  of  domestic 
life  are  nowhere  more  apparent  than  in 
Venice,  where  so  much  of  it  passes  out  of 


THE  ANATOMIST    OF   THE   HEART      53 

doors.  When  the  day's  work  is  done, 
whole  famihes  clasp  hands  to  plunge  into 
the  black  water  of  some  side  canal ;  the 
father,  with  a  lantern  on  his  head,  smiles 
up  from  the  incoming  tide  as  you  glide  by 
him,  and  bids  you  observe  how  well  his 
boy,  who  is  hardly  old  enough  to  walk, 
has  learned  to  swim  ;  in  sea  or  on  shore, 
his  wife  and  children  share  his  recreation, 
even  though  he  turns  night  into  day  to 
accomplish  it.  With  a  feast  going  on  in 
the  quarter,  bedtime  may  come  for  the 
maimed,  the  halt,  and  the  blind,  but  not 
for  them. 

Just  out  of  all  this  merry  confusion  a 
private  gondola,  comfortably  appointed, 
drew  up  under  the  wall  near  the  cafe-land- 
ing. Both  gondolier  and  passenger  had 
evidently  played  at  this  game  before,  and 
knew  that  there  was  no  better  place  to 
await  the  beginning  of  the  sport.  The 
former,  a  handsome  fellow  in  livery,  with 
one  gold  ear-ring,  went  forward  to  light 


54  STORIES  OF   ITALY 

his  lamp,  and  his  master,  settling  himself 
a  little  more  luxuriously  upon  the  cush- 
ions, puffed  his  cigar  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  has  time  at  his  command  and  can  af- 
ford to  waste  it.  His  keen,  thoughtful 
glance  showed  a  certain  interest  in  all  the 
little  details  upon  which  it  rested  ;  he  had 
eyes  for  the  golden  lances  of  light  shooting 
deep  into  the  water,  as  well  as  for  the  stout 
waiter  laden  with  wicker-covered  wine- 
flasks  and  perplexed  by  many  contrary 
commands.  He  even  looked  so  good- 
humoredly  at  a  small  plebeian  just  above 
him,  that  the  child  laughed,  and  kissed  its 
chubby  hand.  The  mother  would  have 
hushed  it,  but  at  sight  of  the  stranger's 
friendly  expression  refrained  from  doing 
so.  Just  then,  the  boat  moved  on  a  yard 
or  two,  carrying  him  out  of  range  ;  he 
smiled  as  he  passed,  and  tossed  a  coin 
into  the  child's  lap.  "An  Englishman  !  " 
whispered  the  woman,  pointing  him  out  to 
her  husband,  who,  after  a  look,  whispered 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART  55 

back:    "  Troppo  gentile!   I   think  he  is 
American." 

An  American  he  was,  and  on  many  ac- 
counts one  to  be  envied.  He  had  heakh, 
good  looks,  varied  intellectual  resources, 
an  ample  fortune  ;  and  he  was  still  at  an 
age  to  reap  the  benefit  of  these  advan- 
tages. He  had  creative  talent,  too,  in 
one  direction,  with  sufficient  ambition  to 
develop  it.  Fortunately,  perhaps,  his 
wealth,  chiefly  inherited,  came  somewhat 
late,  when  his  habits  of  application  were 
confirmed  ;  otherwise,  he  might  have  re- 
mained a  mere  dilettante  in  his  chosen 
pursuit,  which  was  that  of  a  novelist. 
Now,  his  art  had  become  second  nature 
to  him,  and  from  the  first  his  aim  had  been 
a  high  one  ;  to  do  well  was  not  enough, 
he  must  do  better  if  he  would  please  him- 
self. He  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  this  strong  endeavor  did  not  go  un- 
recognized. The  name  of  Malcolm  Pow- 
ell,   if  not   yet   ranked   among  the  great 


56  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

ones,  already  commanded  attention  in 
both  hemispheres.  One  small  book  of 
his  had  been  translated  into  many  lan- 
guages. Even  here,  where  modern  art 
in  all  its  branches  has  but  a  meagre  fol- 
lowing, the  Italian  version  of  this  story 
was  displayed  in  a  dealer's  window.  As 
it  happened,  the  work  so  honored  was 
not  the  last  that  he  had  published.  The 
best  judges  maintained  more  or  less 
openly  that  a  later  book,  while  undenia- 
bly clever,  nevertheless  fell  somewhat 
short  of  his  own  standard  ;  and  he,  when 
the  fever  of  its  production  subsided,  found 
himself  reluctantly  inclining  to  the  same 
belief.  He  determined,  therefore,  to  take 
a  longer  rest  than  usual,  and  to  store 
up  new  impressions.  He  was  a  bachelor 
of  forty,  without  ties,  singularly  alone  in 
the  world  ;  so  he  went  out  into  it,  locking 
his  door  one  fine  spring  morning  for  an 
indefinite  stay  abroad.  Italy  had  been  a 
delight  to  him  in  earlier  days,  and  from 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART  57 

the  wear  and  tear  of  the  London  season 
he  fled  southward  over  the  St.  Gotthard 
to  Lugano,  where  the  clear  air  and  the 
Arcadian  peacefulness  of  the  lake-shore 
almost  tempted  him  to  write  again.  But 
he  was  not  ready  for  this,  and  going  on 
to  Venice  found  precisely  what  he  needed 
— entire  freedom  from  social  obligations, 
yet  interests  enough  to  keep  his  mind  em- 
ployed for  days  together.  Establishing 
himself,  therefore,  in  a  quiet  lodging  on 
the  Riva,  remote  from  the  strangers' 
quarter,  he  began  to  study  churches  and 
pictures,  to  explore  old  libraries  in  which 
he  was  the  only  reader,  to  note  with  an 
artist's  enthusiasm  all  lights  and  shades, 
all  strange  manners  and  customs  of  the 
life  around  him.  The  loneliness  that  to 
another  might  have  been  disheartening,  to 
him  had  not  yet  suggested  itself.  Schemes 
for  future  work  went  with  him  everywhere, 
and,  for  the  time  being,  he  demanded  noth- 
ing better  in  the  way  of  companionship. 


58  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

There  was  a  momentary  hush  when  the 
raft,  towed  by  a  small  steamer,  came  in 
sight  above  the  bridge ;  then,  while  it 
swung  slowly  into  position,  the  noise  re- 
doubled with  every  form  of  excited  com- 
ment. The  wooden  framework  was 
masked  by  rows  of  lamps  in  red,  white, 
and  green — the  national  colors  ;  its  cen- 
tral lights  were  arranged  in  the  form  of  a 
palm-tree  with  wide-spreading  branches, 
which  by  some  hidden  mechanism  grew 
in  height  as  it  cleared  the  arch,  hundreds 
of  gleaming  pendants  making  all  the 
space  where  the  musicians  stood  below  as 
bright  as  day.  The  band  struck  up  a 
march,  and  at  this  signal  a  flaming  star 
flashed  out  upon  the  cafe-wall.  The/^-es- 
co  had  begun,  and  while  the  raft  moved 
ponderously  forward,  all  the  smaller  craft 
afloat,  amid  much  splashing  and  shouting 
and  angry  gesticulation,  prepared  to  fol- 
low. 

The  practised  hand  of  Powell's  gondo- 


THE   ANATOMIST   OF   THE    HEART      59 

lier  quietly  overcame  all  obstacles  ;  so 
that  before  long  the  American  found  him- 
self in  the  very  heart  of  the  throng  and 
moving  on  with  it,  now  swiftly,  now  at 
a  snail's  pace,  according  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  moment.  A  few  yards  in 
advance  loomed  up  the  glittering  palm- 
tree,  and  all  around  him  through  the 
shadow  black  hulls  of  other  gondolas 
swayed  in  an  undulating  mass  from  shore 
to  shore.  It  amused  Powell  to  watch  the 
occupants,  natives  for  the  most  part,  as 
they  hailed  their  acquaintances  or  com- 
pared notes  with  them  during  the  pauses 
of  the  music.  Owing  to  pressure  from 
without,  that  could  neither  be  foreseen 
nor  controlled,  his  nearest  neighbors  were 
continually  changing.  A  talkative  fam- 
ily party  gave  place  to  an  officer,  who, 
pulling  the  straw  from  his  long  Virginia, 
begged  a  light  for  it ;  then  lifted  his  hat 
gravely  and  was  gone,  to  be  succeeded 
by  a  group  of  Americans,  one  of  whom 


6o  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

flourished  the  national  standard  in  httle. 
Powell  did  not  know  these  people,  yet 
nevertheless  was  inexpressibly  reheved 
when  they  passed  on  in  their  turn ;  for 
they  were  of  the  helpless  sort,  and  with 
any  suspicion  of  his  nationality  would 
surely  have  appealed  to  him  for  advice  or 
explanation.  But  some  word  of  theirs 
had  set  him  thinking.  With  a  sigh  he 
dropped  his  cigar  into  the  water,  and 
yielding  to  the  untimely  thought,  drifted 
away  into  the  past,  lost  for  a  while  to  all 
consciousness  of  the  agreeable  present  by 
which  he  was  surrounded. 

A  slight  shock  recalled  him.  The  raft 
had  stopped  suddenly  before  the  Munic- 
ipal Palace  for  a  serenade  in  honor  of 
the  City  Fathers,  and  Powell's  gondola 
had  bumped  into  one  just  in  front  of  it. 
No  harm  was  done  ;  the  gondoliers  were 
not  even  stirred  into  the  usual  recrimina- 
tions. But  this  trifling  accident  served  to 
rouse  Powell  from  his  reverie.     He  looked 


up  at  the  palace  windows,  all  ablaze  with 
light,  and  seeing  no  figure  of  interest  in 
the  official  group,  he  idly  resumed  his 
study  of  the  crowd  below. 

They  had  reached  the  wider  part  of 
the  canal ;  there  was  greater  freedom  of 
movement,  and  everywhere  he  found  new 
faces.  As  the  obstructing  gondola  came 
slowly  backward  abreast  of  his  own,  Pow- 
ell saw  that  the  boatman  wore  mourning 
livery,  and  that  the  boat  was  carved  and 


62  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

gilded.  A  graceful  woman,  with  black 
lace  about  her  head  and  shoulders,  re- 
clined in  it  alone.  Powell  waited  eagerly 
to  see  what  she  was  like,  and  leaning  for- 
ward as  she  drew  nearer,  attracted  her  at- 
tention. She  turned,  their  eyes  met,  and 
each  gave  a  start  of  recognition. 

"  Marchesa !  " 

"  Signor  Max  !  " 

Smiling,  she  held  out  her  hand,  which 
he  grasped  warmly.  "  Who  would  have 
thought  to  find  the  Marchesa  Del  Riso 
here  in  June  !  " 

"  Who  would  have  imagined  the  distin- 
guished Signor  Powell  to  be  in  Italy  !  " 
she  answered  in  English  which  the  friend 
thus  graciously  designated  thought  was 
no  worse  for  a  musical  intonation  that  did 
not  properly  belong  to  it.  "And  alone 
— that  is  very  sad  and  gloomy,"  she  con- 
tinued lightly.  "  Pray  accept  my  hospital- 
ity, and  take  this  seat — unless  you  have 
better  plans." 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART   63 

"  None  equal  to  the  pleasure  of  being 
literally  in  the  same  boat  with  you,"  said 
Powell,  laughing,  as  he  stepped  from  his 
gondola  into  hers. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  replied,  "  if  we  are  to  flat- 
ter each  other  I  shall  score  two  points  to 
your  one  ;  you  have  grown  so  great  since 
our  last  meeting,  while  I " 

"  You  are  unchanged." 

"  Thank  you.  This  light  is  most  becom- 
ing to  me.  You  forget  how  time  has  flown. " 

"  Ten  years,  it  must  be — though  that  is 
hard  to  believe." 

"  I  knew  you  had  forgotten.  It  is 
twelve  years  and  a  half." 

"The  years  and  months  are  details," 
he  returned.  "And  I  have  the  best  of 
excuses  now  for  losing  sight  of  them. 
See  how  well  I  can  remember  the  impor- 
tant things.  We  were  in  Rome  at  the 
Palazzo  Altieri.  The  Marchese  did  not 
come,  and  we  sat  alone  together  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  ball-room  under  the  musicians' 


64  STORIES  OF   ITALY 

gallery.  I  was  to  go  the  next  morning, 
and  you  gave  me  your  farewells.  You 
wished  me  success  in  art,  success  in  love. 
I  answered  that  you  desired  too  much, 
that  the  two  rarely  associate  themselves 
in  one  man's  life.  But  you  doubted  it, 
and  persisted  in  wishing  for  me  the  im- 
probable, if  not  the  impossible." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  I  am  still  between  the  two  fires 
— both  as  far  away  as  those  stars  are,  and 
as  little  likely  to  be  attained." 

His  companion  laughed  gently.  "  You 
Americans  are  strange  creatures.  It  is 
not  enough  to  be  great,  you  must  always 
rule  the  spheres." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  are  an  excellent  example  of  what 
I  mean.  As  to  the  art,  for  instance,  men 
have  struggled  all  their  lives  to  do  what 
you  have  done  already.  As  to  the  love, 
ci  vuol pazienza,  aviico  mio  !  Your  life  is 
not  yet  over." 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART  65 

There  was  a  little  pause,  during  which 
Powell  sighed  gloomily.  Then  he  picked 
up  one  of  her  long  black  gloves  which 
had  fallen  to  the  floor  of  the  gondola,  and 
said  :  "  I  am  tired  of  myself.  Let  us  talk 
of  something  else.  You  are  well,  I  know^ 
but " 

"  My  husband  died  more  than  a  year 
ago,"  she  e.xplained,  drawing  away  the 
glove. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — I  did  not  under- 
stand " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  she.  "  We  must  listen 
to  the  music.  It  is  '  Ai'da,' — Come  scordar 
potrem  !  " 

She  leaned  forward  with  an  air  of  rapt 
attention.  They  were  drifting  close  under 
the  terrace  of  one  of  the  large  hotels  on 
the  lower  canal  ;  the  glare  from  its  win- 
dows enabled  Powell  to  see  her  as  dis- 
tinctly as  though  the  sun  had  shone,  and 
what  he  saw  surprised  him.  Reckoned 
by  the  details  of  years  and  months,  her 


66  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

age  exceeded  his  ;  of  that  he  was  per- 
fectly sure.  She  had  made  no  attempt  at 
conceahnent  ;  there  were  gray  hairs  upon 
her  temples  ;  but,  in  spite  of  these,  in 
spite  of  dates  and  calendars,  she  had  held 
her  own  wonderfully  well.  Instead  of  a 
faded  beauty  standing  in  need  of  the 
adroit  compliment  he  had  paid  instinc- 
tively, the  charm  that  gave  her  name  in 
earlier  days  a  Continental  reputation  re- 
mained unimpaired.  By  one  of  those  in- 
advertences in  which  time  delights,  this 
woman  was  still  young,  still  beautiful. 
His  compliment  had  been  no  compliment 
at  all. 

So  she  was  a  widow  at  last,  without  the 
smallest  pretence  of  being  inconsolable. 
Come  scordar  potrem  !  As  the  music  rose 
and  fell,  all  the  story  of  her  marriage 
flashed  back  into  Powell's  mind.  There 
had  been  little  romance  about  it.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  a  rich  merchant  who  had 
left  no  other  child,  and  with  her  mother's 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART  67 

help  she  had  frankly  exchanged  her  riches 
for  a  title.  The  old  marchese  was  a  brute, 
it  was  said,  neglecting  her,  treating  her 
abominably.  If  this  were  true  the  report 
lacked  confirmation  by  any  sign  of  hers. 
No  breath  of  scandal  had  ever  blurred 
her  name.  She  had  fulfilled  to  the  letter 
her  share  of  the  bargain,  walking  erect, 
uncomplaining,  with  a  smile,  as  the  Mar- 
chesa  del  Riso  should.  But,  that  she  had 
never  for  one  moment  loved  the  man  who 
ennobled  her,  Powell  knew  by  the  best  of 
evidence — her  own.  On  that  last  night  in 
Rome,  moved  by  some  impulse  unex- 
plained, she  had  confided  so  much  of  her 
painful  secret  to  the  youiig  American. 
There  are  moments  when  the  proudest 
woman  will  reveal  such  things,  and  Powell 
fancied  that  her  choice  of  a  confidant  had 
no  direct  significance,  but  that  she  had 
told  the  tale  merely  as  a  matter  of  relief, 
as  she  might  have  whispered  it  to  a  stock 
or  a  stone,  or  any  inanimate  object.     He 


68  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

was  on  the  eve  of  departure,  in  all  proba- 
bility about  to  disappear  forever  beyond 
her  horizon's  rim.  His  presence  would 
never  serve  to  remind  her  of  the  indiscre- 
tion. Telling  him  was  practically  telling 
nobody,  the  appeal  for  pity  being  made 
to  one  powerless  to  work  her  either  good 
or  ill.  Nevertheless,  it  was  an  appeal  for 
pity,  and  with  the  usual  perversity  of 
mankind,  Powell  had  blamed  her  for  it. 
Her  attitude  toward  the  world  wore  a  be- 
coming dignity  that  he  admired  greatly, 
all  the  while  suspecting  the  truth  which  he 
would  have  preferred  not  to  learn  from 
her  lips.  The  discovery  that  she  was  a 
little  less  a  Spartan  than  he  imagined 
proved  distasteful  to  him.  He  still  ad- 
mired her,  but  with  a  difference.  So  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  she  had  suffered  a 
distinct  loss  by  her  confession. 

She  had  it  all  now — the  title,  the  free- 
dom which  must  have  figured  in  her  cal- 
culation as  sure  to  come  sooner  or  later, 


THE  ANATOMIST   OF   THE   HEART      69 

which  had  come  in  good  time.  The  dis- 
turbing influence  was  dispelled,  the  long 
anguish  of  it  already  dead  and  buried.  As 
she  turned  to  Powell  with  the  old  sweet 
smile,  it  was  not  surprising  that  he  forgot 
to  blame  her,  that  he  thought  himself  ex- 
tremely fortunate  in  this  chance  encounter, 
that  he  began  to  wonder  what  her  plans 
were,  whether  or  not  she  had  a  house  in 
Venice,  how  long  she  was  likely  to  remain 
here  in  this  dull  season.  But  letting  these 
subjects  wait  to  unfold  themselves  natu- 
rally, he  asked  no  questions,  talking,  in- 
stead, of  the  music,  the  other  sounds  and 
sights  peculiar  to  the  festa,  the  incompar- 
able beauty  of  the  scene  before  them.  So 
they  reached  at  last  the  broad  lagoon, 
where  the  palm-tree  was  lowered  and  ex- 
tinguished, the  band  put  up  its  instru- 
ments, and  all  the  crowd  dispersed.  Below 
them,  dazzling  reflections  from  the  branch- 
ing Piazzetta  lights  made  the  water  look 
as  though  gold  were  steeped  in  it.    Above 


70  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

rose  the  Ducal  Palace  like  some  fabric  of 
cloud  in  which  the  sunset  after-glow  still 
lingers  ;  but  night — deep,  starry  night — 
had  long  since  settled  down  upon  the 
domes  of  San  Marco  ;  all  their  splendors 
were  put  out ;  the  prancing  horses,  the 
pillared  saint  and  lion  were  lost  in  the 
same  shadow  that  obliterated  the  mosaics 
and  the  marbles.  Church  and  palace, 
court  and  cloister  and  arcade  lay  muffled 
in  the  darkness.  Only  the  golden  angel 
on  the  summit  of  the  Campanile  seemed 
to  watch,  gleaming  high  over  all  like  a 
heavenly  guard. 

The  bronze  giants  of  the  clock-tower 
struck  the  bell  with  their  heavy  hammers. 
"  Cinderella's  hour  !  "  said  the  Marchesa. 
"  I  must  go  home." 

"  But  not  like  Cinderella,  I  hope,"  sug- 
gested Powell.  "Let  me  leave  you  at 
your  door,  and  learn  the  way  to  it.  My 
man  will  follow  us  to  bring  me  back 
acrain." 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART   7I 

"  So  much  the  better,"  she  agreed. 
''Alia  casa,  Mattco  T' 

They  turned  in  by  the  great  wall  of 
the  council-chamber,  which  is  hardly  less 
gloomy  than  that  of  the  prison  opposite, 
passing  imder  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  and  the 
lesser  bridges  beyond  it ;  then  bore  off 
sharply  to  the  left,  to  the  right,  to  the  left 
again  in  an  intricate  course  that  even  by 
day  would  have  been  bewildering.  The 
darkness  became  oppressive.  At  every 
turn  the  canals  grew  narrower  and  more 
obscure,  the  bridge-arches  lower  ;  nearing 
one  of  these  Powell  bowed  his  head  with 
instinctive  precaution  that  provoked  his 
companion  to  mockery. 

"Courage,  Signor,"  said  she.  "You 
forget  the  gondoliers'  motto  :  '  Where  the 
prow  goes,  all  the  rest  goes  too.'  Look! 
Ours  has  nearly  a  foot  to  spare." 

"I  thought  I  knew  my  Venice,"  he 
pleaded,  in  exci:se.  "  But  this  is  unknown 
ground,  or  rather  unknown  water.     I  am 


72  STORIES    OF    ITALY 

curious  to  see  at  what  landmark  we  shall 
emerge." 

He  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  they  shot 
out  into  the  Grand  Canal,  at  a  familiar 
point,  and  crossing  it  plunged  on  through 
other  and  darker  by-ways. 

"  My  house  is  not  down  in  the  books," 
she  replied  to  his  wondering  glance.  "  I 
live  in  a  Venice  the  stranger  never  learns. 
It  is  an  old  inheritance  of  my  husband's, 
rarely  opened  in  his  life-time — still  more 
rarely  now.  This  is  the  garden,"  she 
added,  as  they  followed  a  high,  crumbling 
wall  of  mouldy  brick  behind  which  tall 
tree-tops  rustled.  "And  here  is  the  land- 
ing. You  will  come  again,  will  you  not  ? 
To-morrow,  I  hope.  Ask  for  the  Palazzo 
del  Riso  in  the  Tolentini  quarter.  Every 
child  knows  it." 

A  door  swung  open,  showing  him  a  dimly 
lighted  courtyard  with  a  stone  staircase, 
up  which  she  passed  into  the  darkness. 
Under  a  lower  arch  her  gondolier  slipped 


THE  ANATOMIST   OF   THE   HEART     T^ 

away,  leaving  room  for  his  own ;  to  turn 
would  have  been  impossible  otherwise, 
since  the  canal  was  very  narrow.  All  its 
other  buildings  were  dingy  and  squalid, 
but  Powell  could  see  that  this  grim  front, 
though  all  awry,  had  stone  mouldings  and 
capitals  of  a  very  early  period. 

"  Do  you  know  this  house,  Antonio  ?  " 
he  asked,  as  they  pushed  off. 

' '  Hoh  !  Per  Bacco  !  Who  does  not  ?  " 
answered  the  cheery  Venetian,  glad  to 
break  his  long  silence.  "But  the  Signor 
has  good  luck.  I  have  never  seen  the 
palace  open  that  I  remember.  It  is  old — 
very  old." 

When  the  Signor  returned  the  next  day, 
,as,  of  course,  he  was  in  duty  bound  to  do, 
the  melancholy  charm  of  the  place  capti- 
vated him  at  once.  Weeds  grew  in  the 
crevices  of  the  courtyard  pavement ;  its 
well-curb  was  mutilated  and  moss-grown  ; 
the  splendid  railing  of  the  staircase  too 
had  lost  a  bit  here  and  there.     But  all  was 


74  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

dignified  without  and  stately  within.  The 
long  rooms  through  which  he  was  ushered 
had  an  air  of  rigid  order  inconsistent  with 
the  usages  of  daily  life.  In  themselves 
they  were  high  and  beautiful,  but  their 
too  evident  abandonment  made  them 
gloomy  even  with  the  afternoon  sunlight 
flickering  over  the  vines  at  the  windows. 
In  the  last  room,  which  showed  more  signs 
of  occupancy  than  the  rest,  there  rose  to 
greet  Powell  a  short,  elderly  woman  whom 
he  recognized  as  the  Signora  Carrera,  the 
mother  of  his  friend.  She  had  a  weak,  in- 
sipid face,  very  unlike  her  daughter's,  and 
Powell,  believing  that  she  was  much  to 
blame  for  the  ill-advised  marriage,  had 
never  fancied  her.  The  unfavorable  im- 
pression reasserted  itself  in  spite  of  the 
cordial  welcome  she  gave  him. 

"  Placida  will  be  here  in  a  moment," 
she  stated.  "  We  hoped  that  you  would 
come." 

Placida — Placida  del  Riso  !     Powell  re- 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART  75 

membered  perfectly  how  upon  hearing 
that  name  for  the  first  time  in  the  by-gone 
days  he  had  repeated  it  to  himself,  and 
had  decided  that  the  Italian  names  were 
the  most  musical  in  the  world. 

There  were  books  upon  the  table,  and 
among  them  Powell  noticed  that  best- 
known  work  of  his  in  its  Italian  version. 
It  was  a  new  copy,  freshly  cut,  with  the 
paper-knife  still  lying  between  the  leaves. 
Powell  smiled  at  the  thought  that  the  Mar- 
chesa,  anticipating  his  coming,  had  prob- 
ably procured  it  that  very  morning  under 
the  arcade  of  the  Piazza.  At  the  sound  of 
a  closing  door  he  looked  up  and  saw  her 
drawing  nearer  through  the  long  vista  of 
the  rooms — drawing  nearer,  yet  for  a  mo- 
ment the  odd  fancy  struck  him  that  she 
was  really  going  farther  and  farther  away. 
Perhaps  it  was  due  to  her  mother,  whose 
idle  speech  he  was  following  mechanically, 
that  the  old  admiration  became  suddenly 
darkened  by  the  old  disapproval.     For  his 


76  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

sake  the  Marchesa  had  tried  to  look  her 
best ;  of  that  there  could  be  no  doubt, 
and  it  was  amazing  to  see  how  like  her 
former  self  that  best  remained.  In  another 
moment  she  stood  before  him.  smiling; 
she  was  content  to  see  him — very  content, 
she  said.  The  working  of  his  mind,  could 
she  have  seen  that,  would  hardly  have 
contented  her.  "  You  are  very  charming, 
but — "  was  the  unfinished  thought  there, 
as  he  returned  her  smile  and  the  warm 
pressure  of  her  hand. 

He  was  urged  to  smoke,  both  women 
lighting  their  cigarettes  too,  as  a  matter 
of  course  ;  then  their  talk  in  the  next  few 
moments  wandered  from  one  subject  to 
another  somewhat  vaguely,  and  under  it 
the  Marchesa  grew  visibly  restless.  When 
there  came  a  pause,  Powell,  who  had  be- 
gun by  admiring  the  house,  revived  that 
theme  for  want  of  something  better ;  there- 
upon rising  instantly,  the  Marchesa  asked 
him  if  he  would  like  to  sec  more  of  it.   He 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART  TJ 

assented  eagerly,  and  was  accordingly  led 
by  an  inner  door  through  a  marble  corri- 
dor to  the  ball-room — a  wonder  in  its  way, 
with  a  frieze  by  the  younger  Palma  and  a 
brilliant  ceiling  by  some  later  hand  ;  the 
prevailing  yellow  tint  of  cornice,  tapestries, 
and  hangings  relieved  this  room  from  the 
air  of  melancholy  pervading  the  rest  of  the 
piano  tiobile.  Only  the  guests  were  want- 
ing to  make  it  cheerfulness  itself.  They 
went  on  into  an  ante-chamber,  darkened 
and  gloomy,  passing  thence  to  the  private 
chapel,  radiant  with  a  small  but  very 
lovely  Madonna  of  Bellini.  Here  the  win- 
dow stood  open,  and  the  breeze  brought 
in  a  delicious  fragrance  of  honeysuckles 
and  oleanders.  Looking  back,  Powell 
perceived  that  the  Signora  Carrera  had 
not  followed  them. 

"  Let  us  go  down  into  the  garden,"  said 
he. 

So  by  a  narrow  passage  and  a  winding 
staircase   in   the  wall  they  descended   to 


78  STORIES    OF    ITALY 

trim  paths  and  sunny  stretches  of  lawn 
with  flower-borders,  tended  by  an  old 
gardener  who  lifted  his  hat  as  they  passed. 
All  here  was  in  good  order,  maintained, 
as  the  Marchesa  said,  chiefly  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  public,  to  whom  right  of  entrance 
was  granted  once  a  week. 

"  Such  a  garden  is  rare  in  Venice,"  she 
concluded. 

"And  elsewhere  too;  one  might  look 
long  to  find  a  lovelier  spot  than  this," 
said  Powell,  as  crossing  a  rustic  bridge 
overgrown  with  ivy  they  came  into  a  grove 
of  beeches  where  art  had  permitted  nat- 
ure to  take  the  upper  hand.  The  tall 
trunks  were  green  with  moss,  and  the 
ground  on  either  side  was  a  bed  of  ferns. 
A  sharp  turn  of  the  path  brought  them  to 
the  basin  of  a  fountain  with  lilies  blossom- 
ing in  its  quiet  water  under  a  marble 
Cupid  from  whose  quiver  shot  up  a 
shower  of  spray.  Behind  this  figure  the 
leaves  and  branches  had  been  cut  away  ; 


THE   ANATOMIST   OF   THE    HEART      79 

SO  that  Powell  suddenly  found  himself 
looking  beyond  the  garden,  beyond  Ven- 
ice, beyond  the  world,  straight  out  at  the 
western  sky  across  the  distant  Euganean 
hills.  The  lagoon,  scarcely  ruffled  by  the 
faint  breeze,  filled  all  the  foreground  ;  and 
one  red  sail  was  reflected  in  it,  the  shadow, 
as  Powell  pointed  out  to  his  companion, 
appearing  to  reach  down  with  perfect 
accuracy  of  color  and  detail  to  an  extra- 
ordinary depth. 

"Yes,  it  is  very  beautiful,"  sighed  the 
Marchesa.  "Let  us  look  at  it  a  little 
longer."  And  they  seated  themselves, 
accordingly,  upon  a  stone  bench  fronting 
the  unusual  prospect. 

"  Even  though  it  makes  you  sigh,"  said 
Powell,  smiling. 

"Did  I?"  she  asked  in  a  tone  which 
showed  that  her  momentary  fit  of  depres- 
sion had  been  an  unconscious  one.  "  The 
fact  is  that  I  cannot  care  for  Venice  as 
'3-ou  do.     There  is  an  awful  stillness  in  it. 


8o  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

Its  beauty  is  like  the  fifth  act  of  a  tragedy, 
too  painful  to  be  long  endured.  I  feel  al- 
ways as  if  its  mouldering  walls  might  fall 
and  crush  me.  Something  tells  me  that 
the  saddest  hour  of  my  life  will  come  in 
Venice." 

"Life  has  sadness  enough  for  us  all, 
Heaven  knows,"  returned  Powell,  reflect- 
ively. "  Our  best  course,  I  think,  is  to 
admit  it  only  when  it  comes,  and  do  with- 
out presentiments." 

"That  is  true,  and  my  presentiments 
are  trivial.  I  am  willing  to  let  the  future 
take  care  of  itself.  The  things  that  have 
happened  are  the  things  that  interest  me  ; 
tell  me  something  about  them." 

Powell  laughed.  "What  on  earth  can 
I  find  to  tell  you?  " 

"  Dear  Signor  Max,  do  you  not  know  it 
is  of  yourself  that  I  long  to  hear  ?  Your 
triumphs  I  have  learned ;  I  rejoice  at 
them  as  only  an  old  friend  can — to  some 
extent  I  have  shared  in   them.     But   the 


THE   ANATOMIST   OF   THE   HEART      8l 

friend  who  does  no  more  is  only  half  a 
friend.  The  pleasure  life  allots  you  is 
nothing  to  the  pain.  Will  you  not  accept 
the  sympathy  I  offer,  and  let  me  share 
that  too?" 

Powell  laughed  again,  though  now  with 
obvious  effort.  "  What  has  given  you 
this  impression  of  my  hfe  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Your  own  words,  spoken  and  written," 
she  answered.  ' '  There  is  an  undercur- 
rent of  grief  in  all  your  work,  and  in  your 
talk  last  night  it  came  again.  Why  will 
you  deny  it?  The  great  hope  of  your 
life  is  unfulfilled. 

"I  do  not  attempt  to  deny  it,"  said 
Powell,  gravely.  "  He  who  cannot  hide 
the  scar,  must,  of  necessity,  admit  that  it 
was  once  a  wound.  But  a  hope  never  to 
be  fulfilled  passes,  as  mine  has  passed, 
taking,  as  it  were,  the  bloom  of  human 
kindness  with  it.  I  often  think  I  have  no 
kindness  left.  I  am  not  a  man,  but  a 
machine    for    registering    the    woes   and 


82  STORIES   OF    ITALY 

weaknesses,  the  vices  and  follies  of  the 
world  around  me  ;  the  possible  reward,  a 
leaf  of  laurel  withering  in  my  hand.  It 
is  a  great  destiny,  a  high  ambition  !  But 
only  see  how  pitiable  our  human  nature 
is !  Yesterday,  I  was  bitterly  envious  of 
my  poor  gondolier,  who  took  me  home  to 
see  his  wife  and  children." 

"  Home  !  "  repeated  the  Marchesa.  "  I 
like  that  pretty  English  word  of  yours  ; 
it  adds  another  charm  to  life,  it  promises 
so  much.  How  can  you  resist  the  prom- 
ise ?  Be  happy,  and  let  the  other  strivings 
go.  The  way  is  very  simple  and  very  easy  if 
you  would  only  see  it.  You  should  marry. " 

She  smiled  as  she  said  this,  as  if  she 
imagined  that  he  would  smile  in  return 
and  parry  the  home-thrust  with  some  light 
word.  But  he  did  not  trust  himself  to 
look  at  her.  With  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
blue  line  of  hills  toward  which  the  sun 
was  slowly  sinking,  he  answered  in  a  firm, 
low  voice : 


THE  ANATOMIST   OF  THE   HEART      83 

"  No !  I  shall  not  marry.  The  hope  is 
gone  forever." 

The  color  came  and  went  in  her  face  ; 
she  turned  away  her  eyes,  but  made  no 


other  movement.  Then,  after  a  long  si- 
lence, broken  only  by  the  trickle  of  the 
fountain,  she  spoke  again  in  an  altered 
tone. 

"  So  there  is  a  woman — one,  only  one  ?  " 
"Yes,"    he    confessed.      "There    is    a 
woman. 


84  STORIES  OF   ITALY 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you,"  she  con- 
tinued gently.  "  But  wherein  lies  the  ob- 
stacle ?  The  fault  must  be  wholly  yours. 
You  are  too  distrustful  of  yourself,  perhaps. 
It  cannot  be  that  she  does  not  love  you." 

With  a  bitter  smile  Powell  rose  and  paced 
up  and  down  in  the  path  before  her. 
"Spare  me  the  story,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  To  tell  you  would  not  help  me,  and  I 
cannot  do  it.  You  must  forgive  the  re- 
serve which  your  friendship  almost  per- 
suaded me  to  overcome.  If  I  stop  half- 
way, it  is  because  we  do  not  know  the 
depth  of  our  own  feelings  until  they  have 
been  sounded.  You  see  for  yourself  my 
scar  goes  far  below  the  surface  ;  it  is  not 
a  scar,  it  is  still  a  wound." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  Marchesa.  "  I  see, 
too,  that  I  had  no  right  to  question  you. 
Do  not  think  the  worse  of  me  for  my  in- 
discretion. Count  me,  rather,  among 
those  whose  wit  and  hands  are  at  your 
service,  whenever  they  are  needed." 


THE  ANATOMIST   OF   THE    HEART      85 

He  thanked  her  in  words  that  he  felt 
were  somewhat  cold  and  formal.  She  in- 
terrupted him  with  an  impatient  gesture, 
and  rising,  suggested  that  they  should  go 
back  to  the  house.  At  the  first  turn  in 
the  path  a  servant  met  them  with  a  visiting- 
card  for  the  Marchesa,  who  smiled  upon 
reading  it. 

"  The  Commander  Savelli.  Dear  soul ! 
Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  remember,"  said  Powell. 
"  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"A  naval  officer.  You  will  like  each 
other,  I  am  sure.  He  is  an  old  friend  of 
mine.  I  call  him  the  Commander  of  the 
Faithful." 

They  heard  his  laugh  as  they  went  up, 
and  he  met  them  at  the  door  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  he  had  been  entertain- 
ing the  Signora  Carrera,  He  proved  to 
be  short  and  plump,  with  closely-clipped 
hair,  prematurely  white,  in  striking  con- 
trast to  his  dark  mustache  and  eyebrows. 


86  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

His  manners  were  of  unaffected  simpli- 
city, he  smiled  frequently  and  pleasantly, 
his  laughter  had  a  boyish  ring  in  it.  Al- 
though he  was  not  in  uniform,  the  air  of 
the  sea  still  clung  to  him,  the  cut  and  pre- 
cision of  his  dress  as  well  as  his  hearty 
frankness  denoting  a  sailor  of  many  voy- 
ages. 

By  the  first  words  which  passed  be- 
tween this  new-comer  and  the  Marchesa 
Powell  learned  that  the  commander  was 
off  duty,  and  that  they  had  been  together 
somewhere  in  the  mountains  ;  he  also  saw 
by  the  twinkle  of  the  man's  eye  that  the 
two  had  some  joke  in  common,  relating 
probably  to  the  sailor's  unexpected  visit. 
She  had  given  him  the  slip,  it  appeared. 
Yet,  evidently,  he  was  not  unwelcome. 
Her  tone  in  describing  him  to  Powell  had 
indicated  that,  and  she  received  him  now 
with  the  utmost  cordiality.  Both  men 
were  urged  to  stay  to  dinner,  for  charity's 
sake,   the  Marchesa  said.     Her  entreaty 


STORIES   OF   ITALY 


had  SO  much  the  air  of  a  command  that 
Powell  immediately  complied  with  it.  Sa- 
velli,  for  his  part,  needed  no  urging  ;  he 
had  expected  to  stay  from  the  first. 

Dinner  was  served  in  a  high  central 
hall  looking  out  upon  the  garden  and  all 
aglow  with  the  sunset.  The  windows 
were  wide  open,  and  the  fragrance  of 
flowers  filled  the  air.  The  meal,  well- 
ordered  and  enlivened  by  a  golden  wine 
of  Pomino,  old  and  rare,  began  merrily 
and  grew  merrier  still  as  the  stars  came 
out  in  the  darkening  sky.  Savelli  was 
the  head  and  front  of  it.  After  a  time  the 
others  did  little  but  listen  to  his  talk, 
which  dashed  brilliantly  from  one  thing  to 
another,  gilding  all  it  touched  with  his 
enthusiasm.  He  had  strong  tastes  in  art, 
a  passion  for  music  and  the  theatre  ;  but 
his  opinions  were  modestly  expressed 
without  a  shade  of  arrogance.  He  told 
tales  of  the  sea,  of  adventure  bj'  night  in 
foreign  cities,  of  strange  people  with  whom 


THE   ANATOMIST    OF   THE   HEART      89 

his  experience  had  thrown  him  ;  treating 
all  so  lightly  and  so  wittily  that  the  room 
resounded  with  the  laughter  in  which  he 
did  not  scruple  to  lead  off.  Then  candles 
and  cigars  were  brought  ;  and,  reminding 
the  men  that  to  sit  long  over  their  wine 
was  a  brutal  English  fashion  not  to  be 
tolerated,  the  two  women  rustled  away. 

The  commander  moved  nearer  and  be- 
gan to  talk  of  books,  showing  at  once  that 
his  reading  had  not  been  limited  to  the 
masterpieces  of  his  own  language.  He 
knew  his  companion's  work  in  its  original 
form. 

"  You  write,  of  course  ?  "  said  Powell. 

"I?     Oh,  no!" 

"Why  not,  since  you  have  so  much  to 
say — with  all  your  knowledge  of  the 
world  ?  " 

"  I  have  neither  the  skill  nor  the  pa- 
tience," said  Savelli,  laughing.  "And  I 
have  told  you  all  I  know.  My  mind  is 
full,  but  it  is  a  very  little  mind.     It  is  like 


90  STORIES    OF    ITALY 

one  of  those  small  shops  under  the  arcade 
in  Paris  on  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  There  is 
no  arrih-e  boutique  in  it.  All  my  wares 
are  in  the  window." 

"Too  much  modesty!"  Powell  re- 
torted. 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  growing  almost 
serious  for  the  moment  ;  "  that  is  not  my 
failing.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  over-am- 
bitious. My  aim  is  high — much  too  high  ; 
but  it  is  well  to  have  the  mountain-peak 
in  view,  even  if  one  never  lives  to  reach  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Powell,  sympathetically; 
"  if  one  could  not  look  a  little  above  the 
world  to  some  such  shining  mark,  life,  no 
doubt,  would  be  intolerable." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  they 
heard  faint  notes  of  a  piano  softly  played. 
"  The  Marchesa  makes  sweet  music," 
said  Savelli.     "Let  us  go  in." 

They  rose,  and  Powell,  as  he  passed 
the  window,  stopped  to  look  down  at  the 
quiet  darkness.     Far  out  in  the  lagoon  a 


THE  ANATOMIST   OF   THE    HEART      91 

point  of  light  shone  clearly,  as  if  some 
planet  had  fallen  there  into  the  sea. 

"  What  is  that  light?  "  he  asked. 

Savelli  joined  him  at  the  window. 
"The  Virgin's  Shrine  on  the  island  of 
San  Giorgio  in  Alega,"  said  he.  "  Do 
you  remember  ?  There  is  an  old  fort 
with  the  Madonna  at  the  angle  of  its 
ruined  wall.  The  sailors  keep  her  lamp 
always  lighted.  It  is  a  pious  duty — their 
safety  too." 

"This  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Powell. 
"  How  can  one  possess  the  Palazzo  del 
Riso  and  not  live  here  to  enjoy  it  ?  " 

"  Because  one  is  a  woman,  amico.  Our 
dear  Marchesa  detests  her  Venice  cord- 
ially." 

"  Why  is  she  here  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  We  may  not  know — 
we  may  only  guess." 

"  But  I  cannot  even  do  that." 

Savelli  stopped,  holding  the  door  half 
open,  and  his  eyes  met  Powell's  with  an 


92  STORIES    OF   ITALY 

intent  look.  "No?"  he  said;  "then  it 
is  you  who  err  from  excess  of  modesty, 
not  I.  And  yet  it  is  your  trade  to  dissect 
the  heart.  Try  a  little."  So,  with  a 
laugh  that  was  ironical  this  time,  he  led 
the  way  to  the  drawing-room.  They 
found  the  Marchesa  improvising  at  the 
piano.  At  their  request  she  played  on, 
but  after  a  few  moments  broke  off  ab- 
ruptly. "  Sing  us  something,  dear  Com- 
mander of  the  Faithful,"  said  she. 

"  Eh  ?    What  shall  I  sing  to  you  ?  " 

"  Whatever  you  please  ?  " 

"  Santo  Cielo  /  why  not  ?  I  have  found 
some  words  in  a  book.  I  will  find  an  air 
also.  They  are  charming — you  will  see." 
Then  he  sat  down,  trying  the  keys,  and 
after  a  prelude  breaking  into  song  ex- 
pressively. 

"  I  am  the  moth  of  the  night 
Thy  candle  brings  ; 
In  thy  clear,  roseate  light 
I  burn  my  wings. 


THE   ANATOMIST    OF   THE    HEART      93 

"  Out  of  the  window  leaning. 
Look  down  below, 
That  I,  one  last  ray  gleaning. 
Thy  lo\'e  may  know. 

"  I  am  the  cloud  m  the  sky. 
Too  near  the  sun  ; 
Of  a  look  content  to  die, 
If  love  be  won."  * 

"  Ebbeuef"  he  said,  turning  to  his 
hostess  with  a  smile. 

"  That  is  very  pretty — but  it  is  very 
sentimental,"  she  replied. 

"  And  being  so,  is  it  so  much  the  bet- 
ter— or  so  much  the  worse  ?  " 

"  The  better,  if  it  could  be.  There  is 
no  love  like  that,  I  think.  No  matter  ; 
pray  go  on." 

"  No,"  said  Savelli,  rising  ;  "  it  is  late. 
And  what  you  say  reminds  me  of  some 
other  words  I  have  found  in  a  book — an 
English  one.  It  is  a  little  question  for  all 
the  company  to  answer." 

*  After  Emilio  Praga. 


94  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

"Good!  An  enigma!  Let  us  have 
it.  What  does  the  gentleman  desire  to 
know  ?  " 

"  This,"  said  Savelli,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other  as  he  spoke.  "  Can  a  noble 
heart,  once  broken,  ever  be  repaired  ? 
Could  Othello,  Romeo,  or  Hamlet,  for 
example,  have  loved  again,  had  some 
antidote  been  provided  for  the  dagger 
and  the  poison-bowl  ?  What  says  the 
company  ?  " 

"What  do  you  say  yourself?"  asked 
the  Signora  Carrera. 

"  Frankly,  I  say  no." 

"  Quite  as  frankly,  then,  I  say  yes," 
she  rejoined,  with  a  smile  of  e.x'perience. 

"  And  you — Signor  Anatomist  ?  " 

"  I  say  yes,  too,"  said  Powell  ;  "  since 
the  heart,  however  noble,  is  but  human." 

"Right — right!"  cried  the  signora, 
with  gratified  applause. 

The  Marchesa  smiled  and  mused  a 
moment  wlien  licr  turn  came.      "It  is  a 


THE  ANATOMIST  OF  THE  HEART  95 

great  qviestion,"  she  said  slowly,  upon 
being  urged  to  speak.  "  I  cannot  answer 
it,  I  confess." 

"  Che,  chef"  exclaimed  the  command- 
er, impatiently.  "  I  hoped  that  you,  at 
least,  would  agree  with  me." 

"  I  neither  agree  nor  disagree.  My 
answer  can  wait.  Some  day  I  will  give  it 
to  you." 

"  Bah  !  Let  us  go  to  bed,  and  sleep, 
Signor  Americano.  The  ways  of  woman 
are  inscrutable." 

"  And,  pray,  is  she  the  better  or  worse 
for  that  ?  "  inquired  the  Marchesa,  rising, 
as  they  took  leave. 

"Ah,  doiuia  carissima,"  said  Savelli, 
stooping  to  kiss  her  hand.  "  One  wom- 
an has  no  best  and  no  worst — she  is  per- 
fection always. ' ' 

So  with  jest  and  compliment  the  men 
departed ;  but  not  before  the  Marchesa 
had  bound  Powell  by  appointment  to 
visit   with   her   an   out-of-the-wav   church 


96  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

containing  a  fine  Titian  that  he  did  not 
know.  When  the  great  door  of  the  pal- 
ace closed  behind  them,  Savelli,  who 
lodged  near  San  Marco,  proposed  that 
they  should  walk,  since  their  way  was  the 
same  and  he  was  sure  of  finding  it.  Up 
and  down  they  went,  now  close  to  the 
water's  edge,  now  far  above  it,  over 
crooked  bridges  and  slippery  stairways, 
along  streets  that  were  hardly  more  than 
crevices,  where  the  echoing  footfall  sug- 
gested thieves  and  murder.  Then  com- 
ing to  the  Grand  Canal  and  hailing  a 
ferry,  they  were  set  down  at  the  corner 
of  the  vast,  empty  square  ;  here  Savelli 
turned  off  with  a  hearty  a  7-ivederIa,  biion 
anaiomista,  to  Powell,  who  strolled  on 
alone. 

Their  walk  had  been  like  a  game  of 
follow-my-leader,  with  little  opportunity 
for  conversation  in  it ;  obviously,  too,  the 
commander  was  suddenly  disinclined  to 
talk.     The  interestincr  after-dinner  discus- 


THE   ANATOMIST   OF  THE  HEART     97 

sion,  therefore,  had  not  been  resumed, 
and  the  probable  cause  of  the  Marchesa's 
flight  to  Venice  remained  undetermined 
by  word  or  sign  ;  not  so,  in  Powell's  mind, 
however.  Reviewing  carefully  the  events 
of  the  last  two  days,  he  found  that  they 
pointed  to  but  one  conclusion,  which  was 
very  flattering  to  his  vanity  and  which 
would  certainly  have  been  reached  sooner 
by  a  vainer  man.  The  charming  Mar- 
chesa  del  Riso  had  come  to  Venice  simply 
because  of  the  illustrious  Signer  Powell's 
arrival  there.  Savelli  did  not  doubt  it ; 
and  it  was  confirmed  by  evidence  that 
Savelli  did  not  know.  Notably,  that  of 
her  altered  demeanor  in  the  garden  when 
she  had  wrung  from  him  the  admission  that 
there  was  a  woman  (not  herself)  for  whom 
he  cared  more  than  for  anything  else  in 
the  world.  In  spite  of  that,  this  woman 
loved  him,  it  was  clear ;  perhaps  had  al- 
ways loved  him  from  the  first,  through  all 
these   intervening    years.     Equally    clear 


98  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

was  it  that  Savelli  in  his  turn  loved  her. 
The  open-hearted  sailor  had  all  the  air  of 
one  prostrate  before  his  idol,  regardless  of 
the  by-standers.  His  love  was  the  moun- 
tain-top of  his  thinly-veiled  metaphor,  too 
high  to  be  attained.  He  was  the  speck  of 
cloud  struggling  with  the  invincible  sun — 
the  night-moth,  happy  to  hover  about  his 
candle-flame  with  the  full  consciousness 
tliat  it  promised  him  nothing  but  destruc- 
tion. 

Powell  leaned  over  the  parapet  of  one 
of  the  Riva  bridges,  fronting  the  hull  of  a 
great  steamer  at  anchor  under  San  Gior- 
gio's  tower  in  the  still  lagoon.  "  Poor 
Commander  of  the  Faithful !  "  he  thought ; 
"he  hasn't  the  ghost  of  a  chance.  He  is 
in  my  shoes,  but  he  wears  them  with  a 
difference."  Then  remembering  how  he 
had  shrunk  into  himself  at  the  allusion  to 
his  own  pain,  Powell  laughed  bitterly.  "  I 
might  have  told  her,"  he  added,  with  a 
sigh.     "  It  would  not  have  taken  long." 


THB   ANATOMIST   OF    THE   HEART      99 

In  truth,  great  sorrows  are  always  sim- 
ple, and  the  plot  of  Powell's  tragedy 
could  be  given  in  a  few  words.  The  girl 
he  loved  had  refused  him,  that  was  all. 
He  had  known  her  all  his  life,  and  their 
friendship  had  been  so  intimate  that  he 
was  startled  and  stunned  by  her  answer, 
which  he  could  hardly  believe  to  be  the 
true  one.  Within  three  weeks  he  had 
begged  for  a  reconsideration — by  letter, 
this  time  ;  she  had  closed  the  correspond- 
ence curtly  and  decisively.  It  would  never 
be  possible  to  care  for  him  "in  that 
way,"  she  wrote  ;  yet  they  might  always 
remain  good  friends  if  he  pleased — she 
hoped,  at  least,  that  they  would  continue 
to  meet  without  bitterness.  But  half-way 
measures  were  not  at  all  to  her  lover's 
liking.  Five  years  had  passed,  during 
which  they  had  not  exchanged  a  dozen 
phrases,  and  in  all  that  time  she  had  never 
been  absent  from  his  mind  one  hour. 
Cruel  and  uncompromising  as  he  some- 


STORIES   OF   ITALY 


times  thought  her,  she  was  still  his  type, 
his  high  ideal.  She  had  figured  in  his  work 
under  twenty  different  disguises.  All  other 
women  he  met  were  compared  with  her 
and  found  wanting.  She  had  never  mar- 
ried, but  if  this  fact  afforded  ground  for 
the  hope  of  a  reconciliation,  he  did  not 
admit  the  hope.  The  chilling  words  of 
her  letter  remained  her  last  for  him.  So 
they  were  growing  old  apart,  yet  linked 
together  by  a  tender  recollecton  —  his 
only  vulnerable  point.  For,  as  if  the 
weapon  of  her  indifference  had  been 
steeped  in  subtle  poison,  he  felt  a  change 
for  the  worse  in  his  nature — the  hardness 
of  his  trade,  he  called  it — slowly  overcom- 
ing him.  She  had  condemned  him  to 
walk  alone  through  life,  and  he  was  work- 
ing out  the  sentence,  hardening,  harden- 
ing always.  The  joys  and  sorrows  of  other 
lives  had  become  mere  items  for  his  note- 
book ;  his  capacity  for  enjoyment  grew 
less  and    less,    and    all    experience    was 


THE   ANATOMIST   OF   THE   HEART     lOI 

marred  by  the  effort  to  make  it  profitable. 
He  magnified  men's  faults,  diminishing 
their  virtues  proportionately ;  and  he 
moved  among  them  with  sharpened  wits, 
keen-eyed  and  callous  as  a  surgeon  in 
the  operating-theatre  of  some  public  hos- 
pital. 

A  puff  of  white  smoke  went  up  from  the 
steamer,  and  there  was  a  stir  upon  her 
deck.  Powell  looked  at  his  watch.  "She 
is  off  for  Trieste  in  an  hour,"  said  he. 
"Why  not  pack  on  board  of  her,  and 
go."  He  strode  on  briskly  toward  his 
hotel,  but  soon  slackened  his  pace.  "  It 
is  always  so,"  he  reflected;  "when  the 
woman  advances,  the  man  retreats.  He 
must  pursue,  not  be  pursued.  But  why 
should  I  run  away  merely  because  this 
one  flings  me  her  hand  and  I  don't  care 
to  pick  it  up  ?  I  am  a  fool !  The  Mar- 
chesa  is  excellent  material — a  most  inter- 
esting study  !  Let  me  stay  a  while,  and 
study  her  ;  positively,  it  is  my  duty.  There 


STORIES   OF    ITALY 


will  be  other  steamers  for  Trieste."  Then, 
smiling  at  the  thought,  he  went  to  his 
room,  and  watched  this  one  weigh  anchor 
and  steam  off  with  flashing  lights  between 
the  islands  to  the  sea. 

When  Powell  went  over  to  the  Lido  the 
next  morning  for  a  dip  in  the  Adriatic, 
the  first  figure  he  found  there  was  Sa- 
velli's,  in  clinging  red  garments,  rolling 
over  and  over  through  the  lines  of  surf 
like  a  crimson  porpoise.  The  day  was 
very  fine  ;  a  fleet  of  fishermen  dotted  the 
horizon  with  sails  of  many  hues  ;   the  sea 


r 


THE   ANATOMIST    OF   THE    HEART     IO3 

had  put  on  its  most  inviting  blue,  and  its 
temperature,  as  recorded  by  a  placard  at 
the  landing,  had  risen  to  an  incredible 
height.  Savelli,  having  been  in  the  water 
an  hour  already,  seemed  disincUned  to 
leave  it.  He  was  armed  with  a  huge 
india-rubber  ball  which  he  tossed  into  a 
merry  cloud  of  splashing  Italians  who 
buffeted  the  plaything  about.  It  was 
finally  knocked  over  the  line  into  the 
space  allotted  to  female  bathers,  where 
Savelli,  going  to  its  rescue,  remained  with 
it.  By  the  time  that  Powell  went  ashore, 
after  a  moderate  swim,  the  commander 
had  developed  into  a  professor  of  aquatic 
sport,  and  was  trying  to  inspire  a  very 
stout  Venetian  woman  with  sufficient  con- 
fidence to  float.  He  sent  word,  however, 
that  his  bath  was  over,  appearing  upon 
the  terrace  shortly  afterward  fully  clothed 
and  ready,  after  his  glass  of  vermouth,  for 
the  return  to  town.  As  the  two  men  land- 
ed at  the  Piazzetta  the  sharp  report  of  the 


104  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

noon  gun  sent  up  a  cloud  of  doves  that 
fluttered  out  from  every  window-ledge 
and  cornice-angle. 

"Silly  birds!"  said  Savelli,  as  they 
beat  the  air  with  startled  wings  ;  "  to  hear 
that  every  day,  and  still  be  frightened  by 
it.  And  men  are  just  as  weak  ;  experience 
can  teach  them  nothing." 

"  Doubted  !  "  commented  Powell.  "  Ex- 
perience has  taught  me  much." 

"Ah!  But  you  are  strong — you,  who 
were  set  apart  for  purposes  of  dissection. 
With  me  it  is  different ;  if  I  had  twenty 
lives  to  live,  I  should  do  in  all  of  them 
precisely  what  I  am  doing  now." 

"And  what  is  that?"  asked  Powell, 
laughing. 

' '  Nothing  at  all !  I  have  a  hunger  of  the 
sea.     Let  us  go  to  breakfast. " 

They  sat  long  over  the  table  in  one  of 
the  cool,  shaded  windows  of  the  Quadri, 
discussing  many  things,  from  a  possible 
future  state  to  the  splendid  detail  of  the 


THE  ANATOxMIST    OF   THE   HEART     I05 

cathedral  they  looked  out  upon.  But  not 
until  Powell,  remembering  his  appoint- 
ment, abruptly  rose  to  go,  did  the  Com- 
mander of  the  Faithful  touch  upon  one 
special  problem  which  interested  them 
both. 

"Tell  me,"  he  asked,  "has  the  science 
of  your  experience  taught  you  why  a  cer- 
tain enchanting  friend  of  ours  comes  to 
Venice?  " 

"Yes,  commander,  if  I  read  the  signs 
correctly." 

"  All  the  better,  then.  Success  to  her  ; 
I  drink  it." 

"That  means,"  said  Powell,  "that  I 
should  drink  success  to  you." 

Savelli  put  down  his  glass  with  a  trou- 
bled look  in  his  face. 

"  Signor  Powell,"  he  said,  solemnly; 
"  she  is  a  star  in  heaven,  and  I  am  of  the 
earth." 

"And  what  am  I,  then?"  asked  the 
other,  with  a  bitter  laush. 


I05  STORIES    OF   ITALY 

Savelli's  face  cleared,  and,  smiling,  he 
offered  his  hand.  "  Do  not  deceive  your- 
self," he  said  ;  "  you  are  a  man  of  genius, 
born  to  make  her  happy,  it  appears.  Good 
luck  go  with  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Powell,  shaking 
hands  warmly.  "  It  may  be  that  I  have 
found  my  mission  in  the  world." 

At  the  door  he  looked  back.  Savelli 
had  resumed  his  place  at  the  table ;  but 
his  face  was  turned  away  ;  he  sat  with  his 
cheek  resting  upon  his  hand  in  a  thought- 
ful attitude,  motionless  as  a  statue,  star- 
ing out  of  the  window  at  the  cathedral 
doors.  "  How  the  fellow's  eyes  glistened  !  " 
thought  Powell,  as  he  brushed  rapidly 
through  the  crowded  arcade.  "That  is 
true  devotion.  It  is  her  happiness  he 
cares  for — not  his  own.  With  what  sub- 
lime unconsciousness  a  man  may  prove 
himself  a  hero  !  A  smile  will  do  it.  And 
what  am  I  to  do?  Pshaw!  He  is  out  of 
the  question,  absolutely,  with  his  stars  and 


THE  ANATOMIST   OF   THE   HEART     I07 

candle-flames.     Marchesa,  by  your  leave, 
I'll  study  you." 

He  hired  the  first  gondolier  who  hailed 
him,  and  found  her  waiting  at  her  palace- 
gate.  The  tide  was  at  the  flood,  and 
even  in  the  lesser  canals  it  kept  its  pure, 
transparent  green,  rippling  so  clearly 
above  the  weedy  foundations  that  the 
smallest  crab  at  rest  upon  them  could  be 
discerned.  Through  the  shining  after- 
noon the  gondola  glided  on  along  old 
walls  of  brick,  salt-encrusted,  and  dyed 
by  wind  and  wave  with  soft  Venetian 
tints  of  yellow,  green,  and  brown,  into 
quiet  regions  where  only  the  splash  of 
their  own  oars  broke  the  delicious  silence  ; 
where  scarlet  clusters  of  the  trumpet-flow- 
er overhung  them,  and  the  smooth  white 
arch  of  every  bridge  caught  its  fine  trac- 
ery of  shadows,  changing  like  the  forms 
in  a  kaleidoscope  at  each  new  motion 
of  the  playful  water.  They  passed  an 
abandoned  church  with  high  pointed  win- 


lo8  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

dows  all  in  ruins,  and  a  few  turns  more 
brought  them  to  the  steps  of  a  small 
square,  flanked  by  the  portal  of  San  Mar- 
ziale  where  was  the  picture  they  had  come 
to  see, 

A  smiling  boy,  hardly  big  enough  to 
wield  his  boat-hook,  drew  in  their  prow, 
and  was  then  dispatched  for  the  custodi- 
an, only  to  return  without  him.  But  half 
the  neighborhood  was  now  interested  in 
the  matter,  and  the  important  function- 
ary, sought  this  way  and  that,  finally  hur- 
ried up  with  jingling  keys.  He  was  pro- 
fuse in  his  apologies.  It  would  have  been 
a  grave  misfortune  if  the  distinguished 
strangers  had  failed  to  see  his  treasure, 
which,  he  complained,  was  rarely  visited. 
There  it  hung,  on  the  left,  above  the  first 
altar.  The  light  was  good,  but  it  would 
be  better  in  the  morning.  The  signor 
must  bring  his  wife  again.  Then  he  hob- 
bled away  into  the  sacristy,  leaving  the 
master's  eloquent  silence  to  speak  for  itself. 


THE   ANATOMIST    OF   THE   HEART     IO9 

The  picture  is  a  large  one,  illustrating 
the  story  of  Tobit  ;  remarkable  for  a 
glorious  figure  of  the  angel  in  a  flowing 
crimson  garment,  leading  his  charge  by 
the  hand,  and  looking  down  upon  him 
tenderly.  It  is  Titian  at  his  best.  For 
color,  strength,  and  beauty  this  heroic 
conception,  striding  across  the  dim  land- 
scape with  perfect  freedom  of  action,  im- 
presses itself  instantly  upon  the  mind,  to 
hold  its  place  there  ever  afterward  unri- 
valled. The  sacristan's  absurd  blunder, 
which  had  brought  a  flush  to  the  Mar- 
chesa's  cheek,  was  at  once  forgotten,  and 
the  two  sat  before  his  priceless  jewel  for 
some  time  without  a  word. 

"It  is  hopelessly  fine,"  said  Powell  at 
last. 

"  Yes,"  she  sighed.  "  Ah  !  If  one  had 
faith  that  in  this  poor  life  of  ours  there 
could  be  a  guardian  angel !  " 

"  We  have  gone  beyond  it,"  he  returned, 
lightly;   "perhaps  because  we  no  longer 


STORIES   OF   ITALY 


need  such  intervention.  Some  of  us,  at 
least,  do  not — one,  in  particular,  who  is 
perfection  always." 

The  Marchesa  knit  her  Vjrows  with  a 
look  of  irritation.  "  It  was  Savelli  who 
said  that,"  she  replied. 

"  Yes,  it  was  Savelli,"  said  Powell,  re- 
calling involuntarily  that  patient  silhou- 
ette left  behind  in  the  cafe  -  window. 
"  Yes,  Savelli." 

She  turned  upon  him  suddenly  with 
restless  eagerness.  "You  are  most  per- 
plexing," she  protested.  "  Tell  me  ;  why 
did  you  say  '  yes '  to  his  question  about 
the  cure  for  a  broken  heart — you,  who 
pretend  to  carry  with  you  a  grief  that  is 
eternal?  " 

"  I  thouglit  I  should  puzzle  you,"  he 
explained,  laughing.  "  Of  course  I  took 
that  ground  merely  for  purposes  of  argu- 
ment." 

"  So  you  have  not  changed  your 
mind?  " 


THE   ANATOMIST    OF   THE   HEART     III 

"Oh,  no!  One  does  not  change  his 
mind  twice  a  day." 

She  looked  away  from  him  now,  ner- 
vously tapping  with  her  foot  a  l)lock  in 
the  pavement  that  bore  traces  of  heraldic 
emblems. 

"You  are  all  wrong,"  she  declared. 
' '  You  have  no  right  to  brood  upon  a 
loss  that  is  irreparable.  You  belong  to 
the  present,  and  should  accept  its  joys, 
its  obligations.  The  past  is  past — dead, 
like  that  poor  fellow  at  our  feet  whose 
name  we  cannot  read." 

"Go  on,  my  dear  Signora !  You 
mean,  of  course " 

"  I  mean  that  you  should  marry." 

"  As  you  said  yesterday.  All  I  can  say 
is  that  you  do  not  know  your  man.  You 
do  not  dream  what  a  love  hke  mine  can  be." 

"  No,"  she  admitted,  speaking  now  less 
warmly.  "That  is  your  secret,  upon 
which  even  an  old  friend  may  not  venture 
to  intrude.     But  I  have  still  some  friendly 


THE   ANATOMIST    OF   THE   HEART     II3 

curiosity  that  may  be  gratified  without  be- 
traying secrets.  Pray  what  is  she  hke, 
this  woman,  who  has  inspired  a  love  hke 
yours  ?  " 

"  She  is  tall  and  fair,"  said  Powell,  for- 
getting himself  completely  in  all  he  con- 
jured up  by  his  description.  "  Her  eyes 
are  gray,  and  her  smile  is  the  sweetest  in 
the  world.  She  is  as  radiant  in  her  beauty 
as  that  angel  there  above  our  heads  ;  she 
is  good  and  pure,  and  true  to  herself,  di- 
vinely true.  Why  should  I  hesitate  to  tell 
the  truth  ?  I  cannot  make  her  love  me — 
that  is  all.  She  regrets  this  ;  she  pities 
me,  I  know.  That  she  can  do  no  more  is 
a  source  of  unhappiness  to  her,  but  it  is 
not  to  be  remedied.  She  will  not  feign 
what  she  has  never  learned  to  feel ;  she 
cannot  give  me  her  whole  heart,  and  so 
she  gives  me  nothing.  She  is  one  whom 
no  motives  of  self-interest  could  force  into 
a  marriage  ;  one  who  would  die  rather 
than  practise  such  deceit  ;  one  who " 


114  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

He  Stopped  at  a  movement  of  his  com- 
panion, who  had  turned  pale  as  death. 
She  gave  him  an  appealing  look  with 
eyes  that  were  full  of  tears.  He  did  not 
need  to  be  told  the  reason.  In  drawing 
his  ideal  portrait,  he  had  unconsciously- 
drawn  the  reverse  of  it  in  the  same  breath. 
By  a  word  of  his,  spoken  at  her  own  re- 
quest, the  Marchesa,  with  her  title,  dear- 
ly-bought, had  been  condemned. 

He  took  her  hand,  speaking  again  in  a 
tone  of  unwonted  gentleness. 
"  I  am  sorry  I  said  that  to  you." 
She   flung  herself  into   his   arms,   sob- 
bing. 

"  You  can  never  love  me,  then  ?  " 
For  answer  he  bent  his  head  to  hers, 
and  kissed  her.  But  he  was  moved  to 
this  act  by  an  impulse  of  compassion,  not 
of  love.  She  understood  the  motive. 
With  a  cry  of  pain,  as  if  he  had  struck  her, 
she  pushed  him  away,  and,  springing  up, 
covered  her  face  for  shame. 


Il6  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

"  How  could  I  do  that  !  "  she  moaned. 
"  How  could  I  !  " 

He  would  have  followed  her,  but  she 
stopped  him  angrily. 

"  I  hate  you  !  "  she  cried.  "  Never  let 
me  see  your  face  again." 

"  Marchesa " 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  !  Go  !  Go — only 
go!  " 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment  longer,  then 
turned  upon  his  heel,  and  strode  off  in  the 
direction  that  the  sacristan  had  taken. 
The  man  was  setting  the  room  in  order, 
with  no  thought  beyond  his  small  affairs. 

"  I  will  go  out  this  way,"  said  Powell, 
fumbling  for  his  fee. 

"  Certainly,  Signer.  And  the  Sig- 
nora  ?  " 

Powell  looked  back  into  the  dreary, 
vacant  church.  "  She  is  already  gone," 
said  he. 

"Ah!  The  Signor  will  come  again  in 
the  mornin"  lisrht  ?  " 


THE  ANATOMIST   OF   THE   HEART     II7 

"Undoubtedly.  Good  day  to  you. " 
"  Good  day,  Signor,  and  many  thanks." 
Setting  forth  on  foot,  Powell  soon  lost 
his  way  in  the  unfamiliar  quarter.  Such 
directions  as  he  could  obtain  only  made 
matters  worse,  and  not  a  gondola  was  to 
be  found.  At  last  he  hailed  a  barge 
laden  with  cherries  from  the  Island  of 
Mazzorbo,  and  was  slowly  poled  along  to 
the  Rialto,  where  he  knew  his  ground. 
As  he  came  out  ten  minutes  later  upon 
the  Riva,  his  eye  was  attracted  by  a  brill- 
iant red  buoy  that  marked  an  unoccupied 
m.ooring  a  few  hundred  feet  from  the 
shore.  "There  will  be  no  steamer  for 
Trieste  to-night,"  he  muttered.  "No 
matter  ;  I  can  take  the  morning  train." 

The  ne.xt  day,  when  he  was  on  the  point 
of  embarking  for  the  station,  there  came 
a  letter,  unsigned,  and  containing  only 
these  words  in  a  blurred  hand  that  he  had 
quite  forgotten  : 

"  I  have  been  pacing  my  room  for  half 


Il8  STORIES   OF   ITALY 


the  night,  trying  to  forget.  I  can  neither 
forgive  myself,  nor  understand  myself. 
Think  of  me  as  one  who  despises  her  own 
weakness,  and  then  put  me  forever  from 
your  mind.  May  all  happiness  be  yours. 
May  you  live  to  possess  the  love  you  long 
for,  and  may  your  ideal  prove  to  you,  as 
to  herself,  divinely  true.  Addio  eto  na- 
me iitc." 

Powell  tore  this  in  two  ;  then  his  ruling 
passion  conquered  him,  and,  instead  of 
flinging  away  the  pieces,  he  stuffed  them 
into  his  pocket.  "  Very  excellent  mate- 
rial !  "  said  he. 

His  work  goes  on,  and  it  is  known  the 
world  over.  He  is  a  shrewd  observer 
with  a  firm  touch,  quoted  and  admired  as 
one  of  the  great  writers  in  his  generation. 
If  this  fame  does  not  survive  the  day,  it 
will  be  because  a  full  measure  of  human 
sympathy  has  been  denied  him.  He  lacks 
the  woman's  heart  that,  where  genius  is, 


THE  ANATOMIST   OF   THE   HEART     II9 

always  reveals  itself  beneath  the  man's 
strong  hand.  He  would  have  done  better 
to  marry,  his  friends  say.  And  were  this 
said  in  his  presence,  he  would  readily  ad- 
mit it  to  be  true. 

He  hears,  by  chance,  from  Italy,  that 
his  former  friend,  the  Marchesa,  goes 
much  into  the  world,  and  has  been  per- 
plexed by  many  suitors,  one  of  whom 
seems  irresistible.  He  is  a  dozen  years 
her  junior,  and  a  foreign  prince  of  one  of 
the  oldest  houses.  His  name,  his  famous 
jewels  are  at  her  feet.  She  will  stoop  for 
them,  and  die  a  princess,  if  the  world  is 
to  be  trusted.  Meanwhile,  her  Com- 
mander of  the  Faithful  still  waits  for  his 
reward.  He  is  a  good  sailor  with  a  stout 
heart,  and  with  enduring  faith  in  all  the 
virtues  of  his  idol.  Whatever  happens, 
his  lamp  will  burn  unquenched  at  the 
Madonna's  shrine. 


THE  SONG   OF  THE   COM 
PORTER 

By  John  J.  a'Becket 


.  .  .  From  the  rough  yellow  road  led 
a  path  to  a  small  wayside  chapel,  while 
higher  up,  its  white  walls  rising  above  the 
encircling  green  like  the  soft  breast  of 
a  dove,  stood  the  Convent  of  the  Com- 
forter, a  thin  blue  smoke  oozing  indolently 
from  one  of  its  chimneys.     Over  all,  like 


124  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

a  sapphire,  stretched  the  pure  serenity  of 
a  cloudless  sky. 

Up  the  road  slowly  came  a  young  girl. 
Her  lagging  steps  and  drooping  head  were 
a  pathetic  strain  of  dissonance  in  the  sym- 
phony of  the  buoyant  spring.  In  nature 
such  joyous  energy  in  its  calm,  vernal 
functions  ;  in  her,  such  a  protest  against 
the  weariness  of  being.  It  was  like  a  tear 
in  a  circle  of  brilliants. 

Climbing  to  the  lichen-covered  top  of  a 
rock  by  the  roadside,  she  sank  down. 

Not  ungrateful  to  the  tender  fellowship 
of  the  bright  spring-tide,  she  wondered 
wearily  whether  time  would  bring  her  ever 
again  into  unison  with  happiness,  or  would 
Death,  which  had  passed  her  by  as  she 
waited  wistfully  for  his  coming,  return 
again  and  take  her  ? 

She  had  been  a  year  in  Europe,  alone. 
Through  a  long  ordeal  of  severe  study  she 
had  labored  unfalteringly  to  perfect  an 
exquisite   voice,  sustained  by   an   ardent 


THE   SONG   OF   THE    COMFORTER     I25 

desire  to  compass  the  highest  that  her  art 
could  yield.  Her  master,  so  sensitive  to 
artistic  excellence  as  to  be  crabbed,  and 
so  independent,  through  success  in  teach- 
ing, as  to  be  merciless  to  mediocrity,  de- 
voted himself  to  her  progress  with  an  un- 
flagging vigor.  Six  weeks  ago  he  had 
said  to  the  girl,  with  a  brusque  wave  of 
his  hand: 

"  Go,  and  conquer  the  world !  I  can  do 
no  more  for  you.  You  have  a  voice  which 
God  can  listen  to  with  complacency.  The 
world  will  listen  to  it,  too."  She  had  se- 
cured a  good  engagement.  Her  master 
and  his  friends  had  made  the  verdict  of  the 
public  a  matter  of  little  doubt.  She  her- 
self, with  the  fervid  exultation  of  a  musical 
temperament,  felt  that  she  was  about  to 
gather  a  plenteous  harvest  of  glory  and  of 
riches  by  her  powers.  It  was  the  dawn  of 
her  day  of  triumph. 

Then— oh,  the  agony  of  reverting  to  it! 
her  sorrows  came.    Time  might  soften  the 


126  STORIES    OF    ITALY 

death  of  her  mother  to  her.  Perhaps  in 
years  to  come  the  sense  that  she  had  been 
absent  from  that  New  England  death-bed 
where  a  lonely  woman  yearned  for  the 
touch  and  glance  of  a  daughter,  might 
grow  less  a  reproach.  Now,  it  was  hope- 
lessly bitter  to  think  of  the  pitilessness  of 
death  in  taking  her  as  the  term  of  her  sac- 
rifice ended,  and  reward  to  the  hundred- 
fold was  about  to  begin. 

Yet  this  was  a  wound  of  Nature,  and 
Nature  has  her  antidotes.  But  for  him ! 
Could  the  time  ever  come  when  the  thought 
of  what  he  had  done  would  not  be  like  the 
stroke  of  a  whip?  She  could  not  recall 
that  cruel  letter  of  his  without  a  flush  rising 
in  her  cheeks  as  if  she  had  been  buffeted  ? 
It  had  struck  her  down  with  such  double 
force,  coming  so  fast  on  her  mother's  death. 
Her  first  instinct  on  rallying  from  the  an- 
guish of  that  stroke  had  been  to  turn  to 
him;  to  think  what  she  was  to  him,  what 
he  was  to  her.     The  world  was  not  empty 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COMFORTER     I27 

while  that  frank,  faithful,  blue-eyed  New 
Englander  wore  her  in  his  heart,  that  noble 
soul  whom  she  was  proud  to  honor  and  love. 

There  was  the  pang!  Each  time  she  re- 
called him,  it  was  to  go  through  this  brutal 
task  of  correcting  herself  again.  The  man 
she  had  worshipped  was  a  phantom,  b^he 
had  created  it  and  set  it  like  an  idol  in  her 
heart,  and  he  had  cast  it  out.  She  had 
put  him  there  for  what  she  thought  him, 
and  he  had  forced  her  to  dethrone  him  for 
what  he  was. 

She  had  been  very  ill.  But  the  fibre 
that  feels  most  is  the  fibre  that  parts  last. 
She  did  not  die ;  she  regretted  even  yet 
that  she  had  not.  But  in  spite  of  her  wait- 
ing at  the  open  portal  with  more  than 
resignation,  Death  had  passed  her  by.  A 
languid  woman  had  come  back  to  life  ;  a 
woman  who  awoke  in  the  morning  with  a 
pang  to  recovered  consciousness,  and  wlio, 
at  night,  sank  into  sleep's  oblivion  with  a 
sigh  of  relief 


128  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

She  had  not  sung  once  since  her  sorrows 
had  stricken  her.  They  had  cared  for  her 
till  she  reached  convalescence.  Then, 
with  his  dogmatic  kindness,  Ferrari  had 
told  her  to  go  to  the  mountains  and  rest  in 
the  soft  spring  till  she  felt  the  need  of 
music  again. 

"When  you  wish  to  sing,  you  are 
cured,"  he  said. 

vShe  had  come  obediently.  It  was  com- 
fort to  have  someone  assume  the  mastery 
and  direct  her  course  when  she  felt  such  a 
listless  indifference  to  all  things  that  she 
could  determine  herself  to  nothing.  She 
had  come  here  to  this  little  village,  cling- 
ing to  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  and  had 
gone  to  a  simple,  good-hearted  cotitadina, 
whose  deference  was  not  without  dignity. 
She  had  a  room  about  whose  windows 
vines  clambered,  and  looking  forth  from 
them  she  saw  the  woods  rising  above  her, 
and  the  red-tiled  roof  of  the  Convent  of 
the  Comforter  pricking  through  the  trees. 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COMFORTER     I29 

The  little  church  could  not  be  seen. 
Bianca  used  to  go  there  on  Sundays  and 
hear  one  of  the  Brotherhood  sing  the  Mass. 

Each  day  the  girl  walked  forth,  submit- 
ting with  patient  resignation  to  the  burden 
of  a  life  despoiled  of  appetite,  aim,  and 
vigor.  This  gladsome  day  of  spring  was 
the  first  that  had  seemed  to  quicken  her 
vitality  ;  and  she  rested  in  its  peace  and 
almost  forgot. 

So  she  sat  there  on  the  great  rock,  the 
waves  of  melancholy  lapping  her  soul,  with 
her  dark  eyes  looking  up  to  the  blue  of  the 
overhanging  sky.  As  she  let  them  fall  they 
descended  on  the  figure  of  a  young  monk, 
slowly  walking  down  the  road  saying  his 
Office  from  the  Breviary  which  he  carried 
in  his  hands.  He  was  in  perfect  harmony 
with  the  scene.  Tall,  broad-shouldered, 
supple,  with  the  sinuous  movement  which 
goes  with  elastic  muscles,  there  was  a 
rhythmic  smoothness  in  his  gait.  His  eyes 
were   riveted   on   his    book.       The    thick 


130  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

brown  hair  clustered  about  his  broad  fore- 
head, and  his  cheeks,  with  their  clear  olive' 
tint,  sank  in  slightly  below  the  cheek-bones. 
His  eyelids  were  large  and  full,  with  long, 
thick  lashes. 

For  some  nameless  cause  the  girl  felt 
an  instant  affinity  with  him.  The  sugges- 
tion of  strength  and  calm  control  was  sup- 
porting. He  turned  up  the  little  path 
which  led  off  from  the  road  to  the  church 
and  disappeared.  It  seemed  a  loss  as  he 
passed  from  view,  and  she  felt  drawn  after 
him.  He  looked  so  simple,  so  true ;  and 
what  was  true  came  home  to  her.  And  to 
her  sore  heart  there  was  something  ap- 
pealing in  the  thought  that  he  was  cut  off 
from  the  world,  buried  here  in  the  white 
convent,  mother  and  sisters  left  behind 
him  forever  down  in  the  plain  below. 

As  she  sat  in  her  revery  the  tones  of 
an  organ  came  to  her  from  the  church. 
It  must  be  he  who  had  gone  there  and 
was    playing.      Soft    and   low    tlie    strains 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COMFORTER     I3I 

were  borne  to  her  in  faint  gusts  of  melody. 
She  felt  her  soul  stirring  beneath  the  in- 
fluence of  the  music  as  it  had  not  since 
her  life  had  grown  so  dark. 

She  slipped  down  from  the  rock  and 
slowly  made  her  way  up  the  path.  The 
music  sounded  fuller  as  she  approached. 
She  went  on  until  she  stood  at  the  porch 
of  the  church  and  saw  it  was  empty.  She 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  entered  ; 
the  interior  was  bare  and  poor  ;  the  walls 
were  whitewashed.  At  the  end  was  an 
altar,  in  front  of  which  hung  a  brass  lamp, 
suspended  by  a  long  chain  from  the  ceil- 
ing. In  it  glowed  a  spark  of  red,  where  a 
burning  taper  shone  through  the  thick 
ruby  glass.  On  the  right-hand  side  of  the 
little  sanctuary  was  a  Pieta,  the  Mother 
of  the  Christ  with  her  dead  Son  stretched 
across  her  lap.  Through  the  cold,  bare 
church  surged  the  music.  The  monk  was 
apparently  improvising,  for  there  was  no 
strict   development    of  theme  ;    only    the 


132  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

merging  of  one  phrase  into  another  as 
they  occurred  to  him. 

She  put  an  old  chair  which  stood  near, 
back  against  the  wall,  and  sitting  down, 
closed  her  eyes  and  abandoned  herself  to 
the  sweetness  of  the  music.  The  monk 
had  a  musician's  soul  in  him  ;  she  could 
tell  that  by  the  way  in  which  his  wander- 
ing fancy  touched  the  keys.  There  were 
sudden  transitions,  though  all  he  played 
was  grave  and  sweetly  sombre.  Her 
soul  lived  with  new  life  as  she  sat  there 
motionless,  while  the  waves  of  music 
rolled  through  the  little  church,  broke 
about  the  Mother  and  her  dead  Son,  and 
flowed  back  upon  her  in  rippling  consola- 
tion. 

Oh,  the  restfulness  of  it  !  She  uttered 
a  sigh  of  thanksgiving  that  music  could 
still  so  master  her  spirit.  No  converse 
could  have  done  for  her  what  that  digni- 
fied harmony  did  ;  it  was  a  messenger  of 
peace.     She  sat   there,   unable   to   move. 


THE    SONG   OF   THE    COMFORTER     I33 

and  uncaring,  till  she  heard  the  flow  of 
music  cease,  and  then  a  slight  sound  as 
the  cover  was  placed  over  the  key-board. 
She  rose  at  once  with  a  long  sigh  and  hast- 
ily left  the  church.  She  did  not  wish  the 
monk  who  had  gone  there  and  played  his 
soul  out  on  the  organ  in  the  sacred  confi- 
dence of  solitude,  to  know  that  another, 
and  that  other  a  woman,  had  listened  to 
his  communings  with  his  spirit.  She  felt 
that  he  had  expressed  himself  as  natu- 
rally and  as  artlessly  through  this  medium 
as  the  birds  moving  through  the  cloister 
of  the  woods.  He  was  singing  his  spring- 
song — a  song,  like  theirs,  without  words, 
but  a  song  grave  and  sweet,  and  with 
soul  in  it. 

She  walked  slowly  back  to  Bianca's 
cottage,  where  the  vines  clustered  so 
thickly  about  her  windows.  The  good 
peasant  woman  looked  at  her  when  she 
came  in,  and  sighed  to  herself.  Under 
the  pale  cheeks  of  the  girl  was  a  delicate 


134  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

pink  color,  and  there  was  a  brilliant  light 
in  her  large  eyes.  They  were  signs  of 
greater  vigor,  perhaps,  yet  they  only 
seemed  to  accentuate  her  frailty  ;  but  the 
good  Bianca  kept  these  thoughts  within 
her  heart.  To  the  girl  she  spoke  cheer- 
fully of  the  bright  spring  day.  Had  her 
walk  refreshed  her  ?  Yes  ;  she  felt  better 
than  she  did  when  she  went  out.  She 
felt  stronger.  She  did  not  tell  Bianca 
that  the  monk's  music  had  sent  the  blood 
coursing  through  her  more  than  the  rav- 
ishing day.  That  was  her  secret.  Un- 
told, it  seemed  so  much  more  a  solace  all 
her  own. 

The  Italian  spring  held  many  of  these 
days  of  delicate  brightness  as  the  earth 
ripened  on  into  the  flush  of  summer. 
The  girl  took  her  way  up  the  mountain 
road  with  a  lighter  heart,  even  if  her 
steps  had  not  a  more  elastic  tread.  She 
knew  no  tonic  could  do  her  such  good  as 
that  pure  music   with   its  mellow   chords 


THE   SOXG   OF   THE    COMFORTER     I35 

and  subtle  transitions,  like  a  change  from 
tears  to  a  smile.  The  thought  that 
pleased  her  most  was  that  the  young 
monk  was  pouring  out  his  soul  into  these 
strains  of  music.  And  she  gp-asped  them 
so  clearly !  There  were  sadness  and 
resignation,  and  at  times,  jubilant  meas- 
ures of  hope  in  his  chords  ;  never  despair, 
nor  the  bitter  unrest  which  beats  against 
bars. 

She  began  to  feel  that  she  was  getting 
better.  As  she  sat  and  listened  to  the 
pleading  tones  the  feeling  within  her  was 
not  happiness,  not  excitement,  not  melan- 
choly ;  but  it  participated  in  them  all. 
It  was  rest  and  comfort.  She  could  have 
sat  for  hours  in  this  glad  emancipation 
from  her  weary  self.  When  the  music 
ceased  it  was  an  effort  to  rise  and  hasten 
forth,  the  mantle  of  her  sorrow  falling 
heavily  about  her  again. 

She  always  felt  this  desire,  that  the 
strong   monk  should   not    learn   she   was 


136  STORIES    OF    ITALY 

there.  Should  she  know  that  he  was 
playing  with  the  consciousness  that  one 
was  listening  to  him,  even  were  he  to 
play  the  self-same  music  (and  she  was 
sure  he  would  not),  it  would  have  ap- 
pealed to  her  in  not  this  subtle,  comfort- 
ing way.  His  soul  exhaled  some  sorrow 
to  itself,  alone,  and  her  soul  felt  it,  un- 
known.    The  charm  lay  there. 

The  monk  was  so  recollected  that  he 
never  remarked  her.  Two  or  three  times 
he  had  passed  her  on  the  mountain  road. 
But  his  eyes  were  either  fixed  upon  his 
Breviary,  for  he  seemed  to  be  saying  his 
Office  much  of  the  time,  or  else  they  were 
modestly  cast  down.  After  a  while  she  felt 
safe  in  meeting  him,  it  v/as  so  hard  to  dis- 
tract him  from  this  concentration.  It  was 
only  through  his  music  that  he  seemed  to 
go  forth  from  himself,  and  then  it  was  a 
flight  toward  heaven. 

Happily  for  the  girl,  he  went  almost 
every  day  to  the  church  and  played  upon 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COMFORTER     137 

the  organ.  There  were  certain  airs  which 
he  played  frequently,  and  she  got  to  know 
them  and  to  look  for  their  recurrence. 
One  in  particular  appealed  to  her  more 
than  any  other.  The  monk  gave  it  with 
an  intensity  of  expression  that  showed 
how  deeply  he  felt  it.  It  was  a  series  of 
aspirations,  prayerful,  but  exultant  withal ; 
the  softly  pleading  tones  of  the  prelude 
would  swell  into  greater  strength,  and,  as 
if  soaring  higher  and  higher  with  the  in- 
creasing fervor  of  the  suppliant,  closed  in 
a  very  ecstasy  of  impassioned  entreaty. 
She  got  quickly  to  know  it  by  heart,  and 
often  as  she  sat  at  the  vine-clad  window 
of  Bianca's  cottage  and  saw  the  night 
draw  down  over  the  mountain,  the  music 
sang  itself  in  her  heart,  while  she  watched 
the  stars  pierce  through  the  dusky  blue 
of  the  sky. 

One  morning,  a  few  weeks  later,  Bianca 
had  sallied  forth  to  mass  in  the  little 
church.      When   she   returned   and   they 


138  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

were  eating  their  simple  breakfast,  she 
said  to  the  girl :  "  Signora,  I  remembered 
you  to-day  in  church.  It  is  the  feast  of 
the  Holy  Ghost.  They  call  Him  the 
Comforter,  you  know,  and  I  prayed  that 
He  would  comfort  you,  in  body  and  in 
mind.  The  hymn  to  Him  is  very  beauti- 
ful, dear  lady." 

"  Then  that  white  convent  in  the  woods 
is  the  Convent  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  is  it 
not?"  she  returned.  "They  call  it  the 
Convent  of  the  Comforter." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Bianca.  "  Would 
you  like  to  read  the  hymn  in  the  Breviary 
to  the  Holy  Ghost  ?  I  have  it  m  my 
prayer-book  with  the  Italian  words,"  and 
Bianca  got  her  leather-covered  prayer- 
book  and  pointed  out  tlie  well-fingered 
page.  The  Italian  translation  was  not 
necessary  except  for  a  few  words,  as  tlie 
girl  had  learned  Latin  in  the  High  School 
of  her  town,  and  had  sung  many  church 
arias    written    in    it.     Ferrari   had   taught 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COMFORTER     I39 

her  the  soft  Italian  pronunciation  of  the 
old  Roman  tongue.  But  the  invocations 
and  petitions  of  the  hymn  were  sooth- 
mg  to  her.  The  very  title  of  Comforter, 
given  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  stirred  a  devo- 
tional sense  in  her  heart.  She  read  it 
through  meditatively,  and  slipped  the 
shiny  little  book  into  her  pocket  when  she 
was  done. 

That  day  she  was  a  little  later  than 
usual  in  climbing  up  the  road,  but  as  she 
drew  near  she  saw  the  monk,  her  com- 
forter, striding  up  the  pathway  to  the 
church.  The  afternoon  was  waning  into 
twilight,  and  when  she  followed  him  and 
heard  the  organ,  the  music  took  on  new 
grace  in  the  golden  brown  of  the  fading 
light. 

He  preluded  with  short,  quick  chords, 
some  of  them  harsh,  and  between  them 
little  trembling  flights  of  notes.  There 
was  a  disquiet  in  his  music  that  seemed  to 
have  an  artistic,  or  at  least  emotional,  jus- 


I40  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

tification.  It  was  a  tentative  reaching 
forth  for  something,  the  delicate  eager- 
ness of  the  runs  and  hurried  melodic 
phrases  seeming  yearning  impatience,  and 
the  nervous,  strong  chords  the  moaning 
gasps  of  frustration.  It  was  a  joy  to  hear 
at  last,  firm  and  full,  the  prayerful  melody 
which  had  so  grown  into  her  soul,  melting 
on  the  air.  What  soul  he  was  throwing 
into  it! 

Suddenly,  her  blood  gave  a  leap  and 
her  body  quivered  with  its  tingling  rush 
through  her  veins.  It  was  a  delight  that 
was  almost  pain.  A  tenor  voice,  clear 
as  a  bell  and  vibrating  with  sympathetic 
feeling",  soared  through  the  dim  church. 
Never  had  she  heard  such  tones  before. 
So  firm,  so  crystalline,  of  so  velvety  a 
quality.  The  monk  was  singing  the  song, 
and  singing  it  like  an  angel  from  God. 
She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  breast,  breath- 
ing quickly  through  her  parted  lips,  the 
ringing  voice  calling  a  sudden  moisture  of 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COMFORTER     I4I 

joy  to  her  eyes.  There  was  such  pathos 
in  the  round  tones  as  they  dilated  to 
greater  fulness.  She  could  feel  that  not 
half  the  power  of  the  voice  was  drawn  on 
in  that  overflow  of  melody.  Ah !  if  he 
would  pour  the  full  strength  of  his  superb 
lungs  into  those  heavenly  tones. 

As  a  rich  note  welled  forth  and  then 
died  away  in  a  perfect  diminiiefido,  the  in- 
tensity of  her  delight  weakened  her  and 
she  clung  to  the  chair.  But  what  was  he 
singing  with  such  overpowering  feeling? 
She  bent  her  head  to  catch  the  words. 
"  Veni^  Pater  paupcriim,  Voii,  Inmai  co?'- 
dium,  Veni,  Dator  minicriiiu."  They  were 
the  words  she  had  read  that  morning  in 
Bianca's  prayer-book  !  This  air  that  had 
sung  itself  into  her  heart  was  the  hymn  to 
the  Holy  Ghost. 

She  knew  the  next  phrase  in  the  music. 
It  was  the  one  that  had  always  moved  her 
most.  Even  on  the  organ  that  sudden 
change  to  a  minor  kev,  and  the  notes  sat- 


142  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

urated  with  tears,  had  thrilled  her  through 
and  through.  And  now  to  hear  it  sung, 
and  by  such  a  voice  ! 

She  remembered  that  the  little  prayer- 
book  was  still  in  her  pocket,  and  she  hast- 
ily drew  it  forth  and  turned  to  the  place. 
She  had  scarcely  found  it  when  the  plead- 
ing voice  broke  into  the  melody  : 

' '  Consolaior  cptinie, 
Diilcis  hospes  ajiimce, 
Dulce  refrigerium. 

Ah,  should  she  not  have  known  that  it 
was  a  tearful  cry  to  the  Comforter.  What 
words  could  so  well  have  been  wedded  to 
such  strains.  "  O  best  of  Comforters,  My 
soul's  dear  host,  O  sweet  refreshment, 
Thou!  "  There  was  intoxication  to  her  in 
the  high,  tremulous  tones  with  their  throb- 
bing pathos  of  entreaty,  their  melting  ten- 
derness. They  took  her  out  of  herself, 
and  she  shook  with  her  swelling  emotion. 
As  the  last  note,  a  peal  of  sweetness,  sur- 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COMFORTER     I43 

charged  the  church,  she  rose  involuntarily 
to  her  feet,  erect  and  tense. 

Then  she  heard  his  strong  fingers  play 
the  prelude  again.  He  could  not  leave 
it.  With  one  wild  yearning  to  give  her 
soul  its  needed  outlet,  she  broke  into  the 
exquisite  song.  She  felt  herself  singing 
as  she  had  never  sung  before,  not  even  on 
that  day  when  Ferrari  and  his  friends  had 
shouted  "  bravas  "  over  her  voice.  Never 
had  such  a  passionate  exultation  of  feeling 
swept  down  upon  her  and  borne  her  off  on 
the  strong  pinions  of  song.  The  voice  of 
the  monk  had  fired  her  ;  her  whole  soul 
was  in  her  glorious  voice,  crying  to  the 
Comforter  with  the  thrilling  tones  which 
God  had  given  her,  and  which  had  been 
so  long  unused. 

She  felt  that  a  fuller  accompaniment 
from  the  organ  was  supporting  her.  The 
instrument  had  seldom  yielded  such  rich 
chords,  even  to  the  monk's  touch.  He  was 
inspired,  too.     And  in  the  overmastering 


144  STORIES    OF   ITALY 

delight  of  singing  again  with  all  her  sovtl 
was  an  undercurrent  of  delight  that  for 
once  her  music  was  stirring  him. 

The  passion  which  controlled  her  made 
her  pour  forth  her  voice  without  con- 
sciousness of  effort  or  of  pain.  There 
was  the  rapture  of  singing,  and  singing  as 
she  knew  she  was. 

' '  Consolator  opt i me, 
Dulcis  hospes  aiilmce, 
Diilce  refrigerium." 

The  last  note  rang  out  full,  trium- 
phant, ecstatic.  Then  something  within 
her  seemed  utterly  to  give  way,  obstacles 
seemed  swept  aside,  and  a  warm  tide 
gushed  from  her  mouth.  She  hastily 
raised  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips.  It 
was  drenched  in  a  moment,  and  she  saw 
her  light  gown  stained  with  the  flow. 

She  could  not  utter  a  sound.  Above 
her  head,  the  organ  pealed  forth  a  tumult 
of  chords,  and  the  music  seemed  sweep- 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    COMFORTER     145 

ing  over  and  submerging  her.  She  could 
not  support  herself,  and  sank  upon  her 
knees,  clutching  the  bench  in  front  of  her, 
while  her  eyes  involuntarily  turned  to 
where  the  Mother  and  her  dead  Son  stood 
palely  forth  from  the  shadow.  She  felt 
herself  dissolving  with  weakness,  but  with- 
out pain,  without  fear,  without  regret. 

She  heard  the  strong  voice  ring  through 
the  church  again  like  a  spirit's  cry.  The 
walls  rocked  with  the  jubilant  rush  of  the 
monk's  song,  as  he  poured  forth  unstint- 
ingly  the  magnificent  fulness  of  his  voice. 

"  In  labor e  rcquics. 
In  cBstu  tempcries. 
In  Jletu  solatium.'' 

Not  all  the  sweet  notes  reached  her,  but 
she  heard  the  passionate  ardor  that  pulsed 
in  the  first  few  words.  ' '  In  labore  rcqtiies." 
"In  toil,  repose."  Then  she  heard  no 
more  music  from  the  organ-loft.  Lower 
and  lower  she  had  sunk  down.     But  when 


146  STORIES    OF   ITALY 

the  strong  voice  poured  forth,  firm  as  iron, 
but  vibrant  and  mellow,  on  the  words  "  /// 
JletM  solatium,"  they  smote  her  ears  as 
they  did  those  of  the  marble  mother  in 
the  dim  extremity  of  the  church. 

His  head  erect,  his  eyes  flashing  through 
the  thick  lashes,  the  young  monk  waited 
with  his  long  fingers  pressed  lightly  on  the 
keys,  expectant  of  the  Voice.  But  there 
was  only  an  aching  stillness. 

He  waited  two  or  three  moments  and 
then  let  his  fingers  fall  reluctantly  from 
the  keys,  sighed  lightly,  and  made  a  low- 
lier reverence  than  usual  to  the  altar, 
where  the  ruddy  light  kindled  a  point  of 
fire  in  the  gloom. 

As  he  came  slowly  down  the  creaking 
wooden  steps  from  the  organ-loft,  he  was 
erect  and  glad  at  the  burning  thought  that 
a  Voice  from  heaven  had  sung  to  him. 

When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
he  saw  her  lying  on  the  worn,  blue  flags, 
her  gown  with  dark  stains  upon  it.     Then 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   COMFORTER     I47 

he  knew  that  the  being  who  had  sung 
to  him  was  of  a  nature  kindred  with  his 
own. 

"  When  you  wish  to  sing,  you  are 
cured,"  Ferrari  had  said.  She  had  sung 
and  her  ills  were  over. 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE 
HILL-TOP 

A    TALE    OF    MODERN    ETRURIA 

Bv  Grace  Ellerv  Channing 

IVitk  Illustrations  by  L.  Marchetti 


GiULiA,  bent  over  her  machine,  pulled 
the  threads  with  flying  fingers.  Outside 
the  sun  beat  straight  down  on  the  stone 
steps  and  the  stones  of  the  little  court  in 
which  the  steep  road  ended.  "  Sole  di 
Maggio,"  murmured  the  peasants  going 
up  and  down  the  hill,  in  the  same  tone  of 
warning  with  which  they  had  said  "  Sole 
d'  Aprile "  a  month  before,  and  would 
say  "  Sole  di  Jiignio  "  a  month  later. 

It  was  not  yet  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  but  Giulia  had  long  ago  eaten 
her  wedge  of  black  bread  which  Assunta 
cut  from  the  huge  loaf  for  all  of  them — 
'Tonio,  Delia,  Gemma,  and  herself — and 
ever  since  her  fingers  had  flown  without 
pausing.  She  had  not  stopped  to  look  up 
when  Gemma,  coughing  and  shivering  in 
the  hot  sunshine,  passed  her  on  her  way 


152  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

to  the  fabbrica ;  nor  when  'Tonio,  bent 
double  with  rheumatism,  Hmped  pain- 
fully down  the  hill.  The  little  household 
worked  always,  but  nowadays  Giulia  was 
the  most  industrious  of  them  all,  and  had 
her  frame  drawn  to  the  doorway  to  catch 
the  light  and  was  busily  clicking  before 
even  Delia  sat  down  to  the  pile  of  straw 
which  daily  she  converted  into  fans.  Poor 
stupid  DeHa,  who  had  had  "fear  of  a  dog" 
once  in  her  youth,  and  fallen,  and  now 
was  only  good  to  be  the  household  drudge 
and  make  fans  all  day  long  and  every 
day.  Her  highest  ambition  was  to  make 
twenty  fans  daily  ;  those  large,  round 
fans,  which  shut  between  two  slender 
sticks,  and  have  a  rosette  on  either  side. 
Sometimes  she  made  only  fifteen,  but 
these  were  bad  days. 

Giulia  wove  the  braided  patterns  for 
straw-hats,  and  Gemma  at  the  factory 
made  baskets,  which  the  fine  ladies  who 
came  up  to  F'iesole  from  Florence  carried 


-*V^  o^ '  ^^  "-^Tt*    I 


154  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

away  on  their  arms.  The  father,  'Tonio, 
worked  at  carpentering,  but  he  had  been 
so  long  ill  with  rheumatism  that  he  worked 
less,  and  never  had  there  been  so  hard  a 
winter,  and  never  so  little  money  as  just 
now  when  there  was  such  special  need  of  it. 
So  Giulia's  fingers  i^ew,  and  she  sat  pa- 
tiently all  day  at  her  frame.  Delia  no 
longer  had  to  find  fault  with  her  wayward- 
ness, or  scold  her  for  running  out  into  the 
bright  sunshine  the  moment  her  back  was 
turned,  to  jump  about  with  Fuffi  from 
sheer  gayety.  Fuffi  disconsolately  lay  at 
her  feet,  or  jumped  by  himself;  for  was 
she  not  about  to  "finish  her  thirteenth 
year,"  as  they  say  in  Tuscany,  when  they 
mean  one  will  be  fourteen  years  old — and 
was  she  not  to  take  her  First  Communion 
in  three  weeks  in  the  cathedral,  together 
with  eleven  other  girls  and  sixteen  boys  ? 
Assuredly  ;  and  there  was  crying  need  of 
whole  francs  to  be  expended  upon  the 
dress  and  veil,  without  which  she  would 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP     155 

never  feel  that  she  had  properly  been 
confirmed  at  all.  For  there  are  two  in- 
dispensable, inexorable  needs  in  a  Tus- 
can maiden's  life — a  white  gown  and  veil 
for  the  privta  coDumaiione  and  a  black 
gown  for  marriage.  Everybody  doesn't 
marry,  but  everybody — at  least,  if  he  be 
not  an  actual  heathen — is  confirmed  at 
some  time. 

But  when  one  has  so  much  work  to  live, 
there  is  so  little,  little,  to  buy  white  gowns 
and  veils  with.  The  whole  family  had 
worked  and  planned  willingly  all  winter 
that  the  bambina  might  not  be  disappointed, 
but  the  bambina  herself  must  do  her  share. 

Presently  the  mother  came  out,  her 
black  handkerchief  with  green  strawber- 
ries stamped  on  it  knotted,  Tuscan  fashion, 
about  her  plain,  homely,  energetic  face, 
a  clean  blue  apron  tied  about  her  waist, 
the  faded  purple  skirt  showing  below  and 
the  dingy  plaid  waist  above. 

Assunta  was  in  a  hurry,  as  she  always 


156  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

was  ;  a  Tuscan  hurry,  which  is  quite  a 
different  thing  from  a  New  England  hurry, 
and  has  in  it  a  good  deal  of  aimless  hither- 
and-thither  running,  and  rapid  idling  with 
one's  neighbor,  compensated  by  more 
hasty  rushing  afterward.  She  stopped  a 
moment,  however,  on  her  way  for  the  Sig- 
norina's  cream  and  butter,  to  look  at  Giu- 
lia's  braid,  and  caution  Delia  against 
cutting  too  much  bread  for  lunch — Assun- 
ta  herself  never  lunched.  She  patted 
Giulia's  shoulder  : 

"  Work,  work  always,  bambina,  and 
who  knows — "  She  finished  with  a  smile 
and  a  nod. 

Pretty  Giulia  started  up  and  threw  her 
arms  about  her  mother  eagerly. 

"Oh,  Mamina !  do  you  think  I  can 
have  the  ribbon  ?  " 

"  Who  knows,  chi  lo  sa?"  replied  As- 
sunta,  with  mingled  doubt  and  hope. 
Oh,  how  much  she  had  thought  about 
that  ribbon  herself! 


■t»"-#-?' 


l^;:^ 


>-b 


158  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

"  Chi  lo  sa  ?  "  she  said  again,  hopefully. 

At  that  moment  Tesita  came  by — Te- 
sita,  on  her  way  to  Piazza  San  Domenico 
with  her  blind  and  one-armed  father, 
there  to  beg  of  all  the  strangers.  Just  so 
they  went  by  every  day  of  the  year,  Te- 
sita a  little  more  ragged  and  dirty  each 
day,  and  every  day  in  the  year  Assunta 
eyed  them  with  the  same  disfavor.  Every 
day  also  Tesita  and  Giulia  looked  at  one 
another.  Giulia  had  been  forbidden  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  her  former  play- 
mate since  Beppe  lost  his  sight  at  the 
burning  of  the  car-factory  and  Tesita  had 
become  a  street-beggar — a  "  niente  di 
buona,"  Assunta  said,  with  grieved  indig- 
nation. She  was  sorry  for  the  povcro, 
yes  ;  but  bring  up  a  girl  on  the  streets  ! 
— why  didn't  they  teach  her  to  weave 
straw  instead  ?  A  girl  who  lives  on  the 
streets  soon  will  not  work,  and  when  a 
girl  will  not  work,  what  happens  ?  ' '  Ni- 
ente  di  buona — no  good."     She  knew  very 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE    HILL-TOP      159 

well,  however,  why  they  didn't  teach  her 
to  make  straw !  He  who  begs  makes 
three  soldi,  while  he  who  works  makes 
one !  Assunta  drew  her  lips  together 
scornfully.  Some  people  will  do  any- 
thing for  money — yes,  even  sell  their  souls  ! 

So  Giulia  and  Tesita  only  eyed  each 
other  in  silence  each  day.  To-day  Giulia 
sat  up  straighter. 

"Wait  until  she  sees  my  white  gown 
and  veil !  "  she  thought,  her  heart  already 
swelling  with  pride . 

Tesita  wrinkled  her  small  nose  scorn- 
fully. As  if  everyone  in  all  Fiesole  had 
not  known  for  weeks  that  Assunta's  Giu- 
lia was  to  make  her  first  communion ! 

"Huh!"  thought  Tesita  in  her  sinful 
little  soul,  "  she  thinks  she's  very  big  be- 
cause she's  going  to  wear  a  veil !  and 
work,  work,  work  all  day  for  it !  My  Bab- 
bo  could  give  me  two  veils  if  it  pleased 
him.  She  needn't  be  so  proud  ;  wasn't 
my  Babbo  a  Sant'  Apostolo  only  last  Holy 


l6o  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

Thursday  ?  "  A  cloud  passed  over  her 
impudently  gay  small  fiice  as  she  said  it. 
For  had  not  the  priest  taken  that  very 
proud  occasion,  when  he  paid  the  five 
francs  to  each  holy  apostle,  to  look  hard 
at  her  (though  she  made  herself  as  small 
as  never  was,  behind  the  apostle's  robe), 
and  to  say  that  she  was  really  quite  too 
large  to  be  always  on  the  street,  and 
Beppe  should  begin  to  think  of  sending 
her  for  holy  instruction,  and  confirming 
her  ;  it  was  ill  for  a  ragazza  to  run  the 
streets  at  her  age.  And  Beppe,  still  under 
the  influence  of  his  apostolic  dignity  and 
the  clean  stockings  and  linen  robe  he  had 
worn  for  the  occasion — perhaps  of  the  five 
francs  too — had  talked  seriously  of  taking 
rosy,  blue-eyed  Annina  with  him  in  future. 
Tesita  had  had  all  the  trouble  in  the  world 
to  change  his  mind  ;  she  had  had  to  re- 
mind him  how  beautifully  she  talked  to 
the  strangers,  and  how  cleverly  she  ar- 
ranged him  on  his  knees  in  piteous  post- 


THE    HOUSE   ON    THE    HILL-TOP      l6l 

ures,  for  Festas,  before  Beppe  had  relented 
and  decided  to  risk  the  Father's  displeas- 
ure yet  a  little  longer.  Since  then  Tesita 
had  grown  adroit  in  whisking  Beppe  round 
a  corner  whenever  a  black  gown  came  in 
sight  ;  not  a  difficult  task  to  escape  the 
easy-going,  rotund  Father. 

Still,  the  evil  day  loomed  in  the  future, 
and  darkened  Tesita's  horizon  at  moments 
— when  she  saw  Giulia  especially.  To 
leave  off  begging  meant  work — work,  ab- 
horred of  Tesita's  very  soul,  as  only  a 
creature  of  her  untrammelled  life  could 
abhor  it.  True,  it  rained  half  the  year  at 
Fiesole,  and  the  other  half  it  blistered  be- 
neath the  sun  ;  and  in  rain  and  sun  alike 
the  wind  blew,  either  whirling  white  dust 
in  clouds,  or  driving  sleet  down  one's 
throat  and  through  one's  clothes ;  but 
never  mind !  how  far  preferable  one's 
freedom  even  so.  To  sit  on  stone  walls,  to 
curl  up  on  the  pavements  or  in  the  dust 
itself,  and  listen  to  the  cabmen  and  con- 


l62  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

tadhii  swearing  and  talking  volubly  ;  to 
thrust  out  one's  hand  at  the  Foresticri, 
and  rehearse  one's  plea:  ''  Signore,  7in 
poverino !  Signoritta,  tin  povero  vecchiet- 
to  /  "  before  lame  Ghigo  or  armless  Gigi 
could  get  in  a  word— these  were  simple 
pleasures,  but  sufficing.  Giulia,  with  her 
veils  and  her  white  gowns  and  her  straw- 
work  and  her  industry,  made  the  soul  of 
Tesita  sick  !  She  grunted  audibly  as  she 
led  Beppe  by,  and  Assunta  watched  her 
with  that  compression  of  the  lips  which 
means  disapproval,  and  said,  as  usual : 
''Ni elite  di  biiona/"  as  she  hurried  after 
the  Signorina's  cream. 

The  stones  of  the  road  almost  fitted 
tViemselves  automatically  to  Assunta's 
feet,  she  had  trodden  them  so  often. 
Twenty-three  years  !  Ever  since  she  and 
'Tonio  went  to  housekeeping  in  that  house 
on  the  utmost  peak  of  Fiesole  ;  a  peak 
which  embraced  in  vision  all  Val  d'  Arno 
and  its   watching  mountains,   and   which 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP      163 

now  and  then  an  enterprising  tourist 
climbed  to,  for  the  view,  and  boasted  of  for 
weeks  after.  Assunta  did  not  boast,  how- 
ever many  times  she  plodded  up  and  down 
daily.  It  had  good  air,  "  buon  aria,"  she 
was  fond  of  saying,  and  a  ''bella  viste  ;  " 
for  Italian  eyes  can  no  more  help  being 
conscious  of  beauty  than  other  eyes  of 
bread  and  meat  before  them.  But  now- 
adays Assunta  concerned  herself  little  with 
the  view.  As  she  hastened  down  the  hill 
she  was  busy  calculating — she  had  been 
calculating  for  months  past. 

"  Say  so  many  lire  for  the  waist,  so 
many  more  for  the  skirt ;  say  three  lire  for 
the  making  (the  sarfa  said  four,  but  that 
might  be  cut  down  to  three)  ;  a  lire  for 
buttons  and  the  like  ;  four  lire.  Then 
stockings,  and  boots,  and  the  veil,  also 
ribbon."  The  folds  in  her  forehead  deep- 
ened at  each  item.  "Also  the  fornaio 
must  be  paid  this  week,  he  said,  for  his 
daughter  too  makes  her  communion." 


164  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

Assvinta  sighed  ;  but  for  all  her  sighing 
she  did  not  slacken  her  steps  or  forget  the 
Signorina's  cream  and  butter.  The  milk- 
man's wife  poured  out  the  first  into  a  wee 
glass  flask  and  wrapped  the  second  in 
dewy  grape-leaves. 

"  They  are  good  and  fresh?  "  inquired 
Assunta,  with  that  jealousy  she  always 
exhibited  in  her  Signorina's  interest. 

"  ^  they  are  fresh!"  exclaimed  the 
sposu,  with  reassuring  enthusiasm.  "  And 
how  stands  it  at  your  house,  Assunta?" 
she  added,  condescendingly. 

"  As  always  ;  thanks." 

"  'Tonio  goes  to  work  ?  ' 

"  As  he  can." 

"  And  the  Gemma  ?  " 

"  Also  the  Gemma." 

"And  the  hambiiia  makes  her  com- 
munion ?  "  said  the  sympathetic  sposa. 

A  smile  of  pride  dawned  on  Assunta's 
face. 

"  Yes,  Madame." 


THE    HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP      165 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  s^osa's  husband, 
heartily,  "  that  will  be  a  de//a  i-agazza 
some  day ! " 

"  And  a  good  one,"  added  his  wife,  re- 
provingly.    "  And  the  gown  and  veil  ?  " 

Assunta's  face  fell.  "At  this  hour," 
she  admitted,  reluctantly,  "  they  do  not 
tind  themselves." 

"Ah!  "  said  the  sposa,  sympathetically, 
"  it  has  been  a  hard  winter.  Courage — 
they  will  be  found." 

"  Let  us  hope  so  !  "  responded  Assunta, 
fervently,  appropriating  the  cream  and 
butter,  and  departing  with  so  many  saluta- 
tions, and  "  until  we  see  each  other  again." 

She  continued  down  the  hill,  taking  that 
winding  Way  which  goes  from  where  once 
loomed  the  mighty  Etruscan  citadel,  past 
the  gray  walls  of  villas  nodded  over  with 
pink  roses,  down  to  the  city,  and  at  every 
zigzag  turn  opens  out  to  show  you  all  Val 
d'  Arno  with  Florence  on  its  breast,  lifting 


l66  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

her  towers  and  spires  as  thickly  as  the 
lilies  she  supplanted.  It  is  a  Way  where 
one  may  see  a  ghost  in  every  tree  and 
pluck  memories  plenteous  as  the  roses  on 
the  walls,  but  Assunta,  Fiesolana  born 
and  bred,  knew  and  cared  nothing  for  that. 
What  was  it  to  her  if  the  feet  of  all  the 
Etruscan  Lars,  of  all  the  legions  of  Han- 
nibal and  Caesar,  of  eager  Catiline's  fol- 
lowers, of  the  entire  riotous  Florentine  no- 
bility had  preceded  hers  over  these  roads  ? 
What  should  it  be  to  her  that  once  a 
slender  Mantuan  scholar,  with  bent  brows 
beneath  the  hood,  paced  here  as  every 
day  of  her  life  she  saw  the  Frati  doing  ? — 
or  that  a  gay  idler  with  the  Decameronian 
chaplet  about  his  head  had  strayed  hither? 
Truly,  nothing.  She  passed  straight  un- 
der the  shadow  of  Lorenzo's  villa  and  did 
not  lift  her  eyes. 

"  Seven  lire — it  could  scarce  be  less — 
and  boots  and  stockings— to  say  nothing 
of  the  ribbon  for  the  garland.     Dio  will 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE   HILL-TOP      167 

that  'Tonio  may  keep  about,  and  Gem- 
ma, it  might  yet  be  possible  then.  And 
who  knows  but  the  Signorina  will  have 
errands  in  the  city." 

Assunta's  heart  smote  her  a  little  even 
at  the  wish.  They  were  the  only  things 
she  had  on  her  conscience  toward  the 
Signorina — those  trips  to  town.  She  had 
never  been  rightly  able  to  satisfy  herself 
that  when  the  Signorina  dispatched  her 
in  haste  for  something,  she  was  quite  fair 
to  the  Signorina  to  take  her  tram-fare  and 
walk  the  six  miles  to  town  and  back.  And 
the  fact  that  the  Signorina  was  none  the 
wiser  (for  she  found  no  fault,  merely 
looked  a  little  impatient  and  said  "  Va 
bene!"  or  some  such  phrase  in  her  sin- 
gular Italian)  only  half-soothed  her  con- 
science. But,  what  would  you  ? — when 
times  are  so  hard,  to  let  an  honest  soldo 
pass  you  was  little  less  than  wicked  ;  and 
the  Virgin  knew  she  never  took  a  centesi- 
mo  from  the  Signorina  in  all  the  market- 


<^^^c\.'*<^- 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE   HILL-TOP      169 

ing,  though  the  Signorina  hardly  glanced 
at  the  change  if  she  had  a  pen  in  her  hand 
— as  she  usually  did.  Still,  it  was  with  a 
shadow  of  compunction  that  she  opened 
the  gate  of  the  villa  and  hurried  upstairs. 

The  Signorina  greeted  her  with  the  cord- 
iality of  one  who  has  been  impatiently 
waiting  for  breakfast  a  long  time,  and  she 
poured  the  cream  into  her  coffee  and  but- 
tered her  roll  and  began  in  a  preoccupied 
way  to  eat  it  without  her  usual  inquiries 
for  the  household  on  the  hill ;  for  the  Sig- 
norina was  anxious  and  troubled  about 
many  things. 

She  had  been  casting  up  her  accounts 
— never  a  good  thing  to  do  before  break- 
fast— and  had  decided  that  beggary  was 
near  at  hand.  Not  being  born  to  it — like 
Tesita — the  prospect  depressed  her  spir- 
its. Editors,  she  concluded,  were  a  worth- 
less set,  and  literature  a  profitless  profes- 
sion. Any  number  of  unpleasant  facts 
stared  her  in   the   face.     Decidedly   she 


I70  STORIES   OF    ITALY 

must  give  up  the  new  summer  hat  and 
patronize  second-best  dressmakers — and 
the  Signorina  hated  second-best  things 
on  principle  as  well  as  by  instinct.  The 
charming  hem-stitched  linen  which  the 
ricamitrice  made  for  almost  nothing  must 
also  be  renounced — the  Signorina  looked 
disgustedly  at  the  plain  cloth  on  the  ta- 
ble— and  all  like  frivolous  indulgences 
must  be  denied.  She  began  to  think,  too, 
that  she  must  make  a  rule  of  visiting  the 
galleries  on  free  days — a  practice  particu- 
larly abhorrent  to  the  Signorina,  whom 
Nature  had  so  framed  that  she  never  felt 
a  desire  to  look  at  a  picture  on  Sundays, 
but  hungered  and  thirsted  after  them  on 
Saturdays  and  Mondays.  She  was  so 
troubled  at  all  these  things  that  she  did 
not  look  up  until  Assunta  had  twice  said 
"  Signorina  !  "  in  an  accent  of  reproach. 

"  The  Signorina  is  very  naughty  [molto 
caitiva),"  said  Assunta  the  third  time. 
"  She  slept  again  with  her  window  open." 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP      I7I 

"  I  have  told  you  fifty  times,  Assunta," 
responded  the  Signorina,  listlessly,  "  that 
I  can't  sleep  at  all  without." 

' '  And  therefore  the  Signorina  is  palli- 
dissima  this  morning,"  went  on  Assunta, 
calmly.     "  And  it  is  bad  for  the  eyes." 

The  Signorina  opened  hers  widely. 

"  Nonsense  ;  when  there  isn't  a  ray  of 
light — not  so  much  as  a  firefly." 

"  And  now  the  Signorina  eats  nothing. 
Eat,  eat,  Signorina,  and  fatten." 

Thus  adjured,  as  she  was  three  times 
a  day,  the  Signorina — nowise  remarkable 
for  pallor  or  emaciation  among  her  pallid 
countrywomen,  but  who,  since  she  came 
to  Italy,  had  often  been  made  to  feel  that 
she  was  created  in  the  image  of  a  tallow- 
candle — made  an  effort  to  swallow  the 
other  half  of  her  roll. 

"  How  is  your  husband  to-day,  Assun- 
ta ?  "  she  asked,  with  languid  interest. 

"  Badly,  badly,  Signorina,"  answered 
Assunta,  cheerfully,  cutting  bread.     "  Po- 


172  STORIES    OF    ITALY 

verino  ! — when  he  goes  to  work  he  walks 
so."  She  dramatically  doubled  herself 
up  and  limped  a  few  steps,  then,  straight- 
ening up,  pushed  the  butter  toward  the 
Signorina,  saying  cheerily:  "Eat,  eat, 
Signorina,  mia." 

"Goes  to  work?"  echoed  the  Signo- 
rina, "  but  he  has  been  in  bed  for  weeks  ; 
how  can  he  work  ?  " 

Assunta  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"What  would  you?  There  were  but 
two  lire  left  remaining  when  we  paid 
ih&  fornaio  Saturday,  and  the  Signorina 
knows  two  lire  is  little  for  five  persons." 

"  But  there  is  always  the  straw-work  ?  " 

"Truly,  yes  (the  Signorina  is  not  eat- 
ing)— there  is  the  straw-work,"  assented 
Assunta.  "  Yesterday  the  Delia  made 
twenty  fans." 

"Twenty  fans!  that  must  be  a  long 
day's  work,  Assunta  ?  " 

"From  six  to  eight  —  every,  every, 
EVERY  minute,  Signorina." 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE    HILL-TOP      I73 

"  Dear  me  !  "  thought  the  Signorina, 
"  /should  Hke  to  make  twenty  fans  a  day 
— and  sell  them !  How  much  does  she 
get  for  a  fan,  Assunta  ?  " 

"A  centesimo,  Signorina." 

The  Signorina,  with  a  spoonful  of  coffee 
at  her  lips,  dropped  it. 

"  A  centesimo  !  "  she  repeated. 

"  What  misfortune  !  "  ejaculated  As- 
sunta, hastily  wiping  up  the  coffee. 

While  she  did  so  the  unmathematical 
Signorina  made  a  hasty  calculation.  A 
centesimo  is  the  fifth  of  a  cent ;  twenty 
centesimi  are  four  cents  ;  then  if  one 
works  "  every,  every,  every  minute  "  for 
fourteen  hours  one  may  live  to  make  four 
cents  a  day.  "And  the  fans  sell  for  a 
franc  and  a  half  or  two  francs  apiece  ; 
worse  than  literature  / "  concluded  the 
Signorina  grimly  to  herself. 

"It  is  not  much,"  said  Assunta,  se- 
renely, "but  what  would  you?  The 
fabbricante  makes  all.     The  Giulia,  how- 


174  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

ever,"  she  went  on,  encouragingly,  "  can 
now  make  from  eight  to  ten  arms  of  braid 
a  day,  and  receives  twenty-five  centesimi 
for  fourteen  arms.' 

"And  Gemma?"  suggested  the  Sig- 
norina,  faintly. 

"The  Gemma  makes  three  francs  a 
week  at  the  fabbrica,  hni—poverina  / — 
she  is  always  ill.  The  Signorina  has 
eaten  nothing!  " 

The  Signorina  turned  at  the  door  of  her 
room. 

"And  the  gown  for  the  first  commun- 
ion, Assunta  ?  "  she  asked. 

Assunta  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Chi  lo  sa  / — it  does  not  find  itself^as 
yet." 

"  And  the  veil,  the  ribbon?  " 

Assunta's  face  faded  still  more. 

"The  veil — and  the  ribbon— also  the 
boots  —  do  not  find  themselves  either, 
Signorina,"     she     replied,     despondent- 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP      IJS 

The  Signorina  looked  at  the  downcast 
countenance. 

"  Never  mind  !  "  she  said,  encourag- 
ingly. "  I  daresay  they  will,  and,  by  and 
by,  could  you  go  to  the  city  for  me  ?  " 

"  Willingly,  Signorina  !  "  responded 
Assunta,  with  alacrity  ;  and  as  she  spoke 
her  heart  smote  her. 

It  smote  her  again  when  she  stood  in 
the  Piazza  San  Domenico  with  the  Sig- 
norina's  franc  in  her  hand.  It  would  cost 
her  eighty  centimes  to  go  and  return,  and 
the  Signorina  was  wont  to  bestow  the  re- 
maining twenty  on  her.  The  sun  was  at 
white  heat ;  there  stood  the  tram  on  one 
side,  and  on  the  other  the  winding  Way 
of  Boccacio,  three  miles  of  it,  between 
stone  walls  which  gathered  the  heat  and 
reflected  it  straight  to  the  lime-dust  of  the 
road.  She  hesitated  ;  beholding  on  the 
one  hand  her  waiting  Signorina,  who 
could  do  no  more  work  without  paper, 
and  on  the  other  the  metre  and  a  half  of 


176  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

ribbon  which  might  be  bought  for  eighty- 
centimes. 

"It  is  a  sin  to  waste  it  and  I  will  run 
every  step  of  the  way  !  "  she  thought,  and 
set  hastily  off  down  the  burning  road. 

"  Ecco,  Signorina  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
hours  later,  depositing  a  heavy  package 
on  the  table  before  which  the  Signorina, 
in  the  thinnest  of  cool,  white  muslins,  sat, 
feeling  like  a  burden.  She  glanced  at 
her  messenger's  purple  face,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  How  it  is  cool  and  fresh  here!  "  re- 
marked Assunta,  easily,  "  but  in  those 
trams,  Dio  mio,  what  a  heat !  Here  are 
the  twenty  centesimi."  The  Signorina 
pushed  them  silently  back. 

"  Thank  yovi,"  she  said,  gently. 

"Dio  ;«/<7 /"  moaned  Assunta  to  her- 
self as  she  toiled  up  the  hill,  "Dio  mio/ 
Dio  tnio  /  "  She  said  it  all  the  way  until 
she  came  in  sight  of  tlic  little  house  on 
the  liill-toj:),  and  Giulia  bending  over  the 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE   HILL-TOP      I77 

frame,  her  cheeks  pale  with  the  long,  hot 
day's  work. 

Then  Assunta's  eyes  brightened. 

"  Guarda,  Giulia  !  "  she  exclaimed,  joy- 
ously, holding  up  her  franc,  "  the  ribbon 
finds  itself!  " 

Giulia,  with  a  cry  of  delight,  threw  her 
arms  about  her  ;  and  the  last  sting  of  re- 
morse vanished  at  that  touch. 

"  I  ran  all  the  way,"  she  said  to  herself, 
justifyingly. 

"  Gemma,  oh,  Gemma!  "  cried  Giulia, 
darting  to  greet  her  as  she  dragged  up 
the  steps,  and  dancing  about  her.  "  The 
ribbon  finds  itself  !  " 

She  stopped  short,  perceiving  Tesita, 
hot  and  dirty  from  a  day's  lolling  in  the 
dust,  but  with  many  soldi  in  her  —  or 
rather  Beppe's — pocket.     Tesita  heard. 

"  Huh  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  contemp- 
tuously. "  Now  she's  got  her  old  rib- 
bon !  " 

Not   for  anything  in    the   world  would 


178  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

Tesita  have  admitted  to  herself  a  pang  of 
envy. 

"  Huh  !  "  she  said  again,  scornfully. 

Assunta,  smiling  still  with  exultation 
and  beginning  to  fan  the  fire  for  the 
7ninestra,  paused  to  shake  her  head  and 
murmur,  as  usual : 

"  Niente  di  biiona  .'  " 

"  Dio  mio!"  Assunta  said  it  often, 
in  the  intervening  weeks,  as  the  days 
dragged  along,  loaded  with  calamities. 

"  Dio  ?nio  /  "     She  said  it  very  often. 

First  'Tonio  took  to  his  bed,  doubled 
up  with  rheumatism  so  that  it  was  no 
longer  possible  to  sit  up  —  much  less 
work.  And  instead  of  ten  francs  a  week 
— "  and  he  has  been  known  to  make  as 
much  as  fourteen,"  said  Assunta,  with  sad 
pride — there  was  nothing  at  all.  And 
then — as  if  there  were  no  reason  in  any- 
thing-his  stomach  refused  the  good  food, 
bread  and  ?ninestra,  such  as  he  had  eaten 


THE   HOUSE    ON    THE   HILL-TOP      I79 

every  day  of  his  life,  except  such  days  as 
they  had  not  been  able  to  afford  the 
minestra,  when  he  ate  the  bread  alone. 

"  Seven  pounds  and  a  half  of  bread 
and  half  a  kilo  of  mi?iestra  every  day," 
said  Assunta,  "  and  the  bread  a  whole 
franc  !  The  Signorina  sees,  what  with  a 
bit  oi  carbo?ie  to  cook  the  mi?iestra  and  a 
drop  of  petrolio  to  work  by  nights,  and 
the  rent,  it  is  not  possible  to  live  on  much 
less  than  twelve  francs,  or  even  fourteen,  a 
week." 

The  Signorina,  grown  expert  in  doing 
many  little  sums  lately,  computed  rap- 
idly :  fourteen  francs  a  week  ;  one  hun- 
dred and  forty-five  dollars  a  year  ;  divide 
by  five — twenty-nine  dollars  a  year  apiece  ; 
divide  by  twelve — two  dollars  and  forty 
cents  a  month  apiece.  No,  she  did  not 
find  it  unreasonable. 

"But  we  must  all  work,"  said  As- 
sunta, "  and  if  'Tonio  cannot  eat  he 
cannot  work,  and  if  he  cannot   eat  good 


l8o  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

bread —  !  "  she  looked  as  if  divided  be- 
tween compassion  and  impatience. 

The  Signorina  was  no  longer  surprised 
at  anything — even  'Tonio's  unreason. 

"  Biion  giorfio,  Signorina;  has  she 
slept  well?"  always  greeted  her  ears,  in 
the  same  tone  of  unvarying,  cheerful  in- 
terest, each  morning.  Assunta  might 
have  a  trouble  or  two  at  heart,  but  who 
was  she  that  she  should  bring  her  clouds 
into  the  Signorina's  atmosphere  ?  It  was 
not  until  the  Signorina  herself,  in  the 
pauses  of  her  type-writing  or  her  writing, 
looked  up  and  asked  specific  questions, 
that  she  extracted  such  news  as  there  was. 

"Yes,  'Tonio  had  taken  to  his  bed 
again,"  or  "Gemma  had  again  an  ab- 
scess" (for  people  will  even  have  afflic- 
tions that  are  not  pretty  or  pleasing)  ; 
but  "  pazienza  /  what  would  you  ?  " 

There  was,  in  truth,  a  trouble  at  As- 
sunta's  heart.  It  was  not  the  sickness — 
that  she  had  known  before.     It  was   not 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP      l8l 

the  lacking  minestra  nor  the  bread  faUing 
short — these  she  had  lived  through  be- 
fore ;  but  a  First  Communion  can  neither 
be  given  up  nor  postponed.  It  repre- 
sented all  the/cjA7Jofa  girl's  lifetime  in 
one,  and  its  robe  took  the  place  of  a  so- 
ciety belle's  hundred  party-gowns.  Gem- 
ma had  taken  her  communion  thre  eyears 
before,  and  the  bambina — what  a  misery 
it  would  be  if  she  should  miss  it !  The 
bambi/ia  was  working  day  in  and  out,  and 
Delia  made  her  score  of  fans  nearly 
every  day ;  but  what  with  the  baker,  and 
now  a  plaster  for  'Tonio  and  another  for 
Gemma,  and  no  wages — it  was  a  desper- 
ate outlook  for  the  gown.  Assunta  shut 
her  eyes  to  it  and  went  ahead. 

What  she  did  and  didn't  do  those 
weeks,  no  one  but  herself  precisely  knew. 
The  Signorina  grew  accustomed  to  seeing 
her  arrive  breathlessly,  with  the  butter 
and  cream  and  an  apology — she  had  had 
a  bit  to  do,  or  an  errand  to  run,  and  the 


l82  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

Signorina  would  graciously  "have  pa- 
tience." Or  late  in  the  evenings,  when 
she  had  (presumably)  been  at  home  for 
hours,  the  Signorina  strolling  in  the  ilex- 
walks  would  hear  a  cheery  "Good-even- 
ing, Signorina!  a  pleasant  walk!"  and 
behold  her  late  servitor  up  to  her  elbows 
in  the  stone  washing-trough,  or  ironing 
for  dear  life  on  a  table  set  in  the  shrine 
beneath  the  life-size  Crucifixion. 

Once  in  a  while — but  rarely — the  Sig- 
norina let  fall  some  commiserating  word. 

"  What  would  you  ?  "  was  the  invariable 
reply,  accompanied  by  a  shrug;  "  I  have 
never  been  less  poor,  Signorina." 

But  as  the  days  passed,  bringing  noth- 
ing but  more  debt  and  less  hope,  Assunta 
clasped  her  hands  and  dropped  more  than 
one  tear  upon  that  ironing-table,  while  she 
fervently  implored  the  saints  and  Madonna 
for  aid.  The  Madonna  herself  ought  to 
take  an  interest  in  it,  for  surely  she 
couldn't  want  Giulia  to  march  in  her  pro- 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE   HILL-TOP      183 

cession  wearing  things  so  shabby  that 
they  could  only  be  characterized  by  end- 
ing them  in  a  scornful  "  accio,"  "  scarpac- 
cio,"  and  the  like. 

Whether  the  Madonna  took  this  view  of 
it  or  not,  one  day  Assunta  fairly  flew  up- 
stairs and  announced  joyfully : 

"Signorina!  Signorina!  the  veil  finds 
itself!  " 

The  Signorina  dropped  her  pen  and 
clapped  her  hands. 

"It  is  most  beautiful — and  a  gift!" 
Assunta  continued,  ecstatically.  ' '  So  large 
and  also  long  and  beautiful — beautiful, 
Signorina !  " 

It  is  true,  if  dark  clouds  have  silver  lin- 
ings, silver  clouds  have  dark  ones  as  often  ; 
the  next  morning  Gemma  coughed  blood. 
Assunta's  voice  broke  as  she  told  it,  and 
she  wrung  her  hands  passionately  for  a 
moment.  "  Dio  mio  !  if  it  should  be — all 
her  father's  people  went  so !  Che  pas- 
sione  /" 


184  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

The  Signorina  looked  helplessly  about 
her. 

"But  Giulia  is  well,"  she  said,  "and 
Delia  is  never  ill." 

A  shadow  crossed  Assunta's  face. 

"No  danger!"  she  said,  briefly,  with 
the  only  approach  to  bitterness  the  Sig- 
norina ever  heard. 

Poor,  homely,  stupid  Delia !  the  only  one 
of  the  three  always  well  and  robust.  While 
pretty  Gemma 

The  Signorina  tried  again  ;  she  too  had 
coughed  blood,  but  I  hardly  think  her 
physicians  would  have  recognized  her  case 
from  her  description.  She  was  very  elo- 
quent over  it.  When  she  had  finished 
Assunta  regarded  her  respectfully,  as  a 
miracle,  and  the  Signorina  felt  a  little  like 
a  miracle  herself.  According  to  her  it  was 
less  than  nothing,  if  it  were  not  indeed  a 
healthy  symptom,  to  cough  blood;  all  the 
long-lived  people  she  was  able  to  remem- 
ber had   coughed  for  many  years.     One 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE   HILL-TOP      185 

could  argue  nothing  from  a  trifle  of  that 
kind.     Assunta.was  more  than  consoled. 

"And  the  Signorina  slept  again  with 
her  window  open!  "  she  remarked,  catch- 
ing sight  of  it  as  she  wiped  away  the  last 
tear.  "How  naughty  she  is!  And  the 
veil,  Signorina,  you  should  see  how  it  is 
beautiful!"  she  added,  gayly,  from  the 
threshold,  as  she  went. 

The  Signorina  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
deeply  conscious  that  she  had  been  mak- 
ing an  idiot  of  herself. 

"  Cosa  vuole — what  would  you?"  she 
said  to  herself  in  Assunta's  extenuating 
phrase,  a  little  palely. 

She  was  so  tired  that  she  underwent  a 
revulsion  later,  and  was  glad  when  Assunta 
brought  in  strawberries  for  her  to  look  at, 
and  she  could  survey  them  discontentedly 
and  find  them  poor,  and  dear  at  the  price. 

Assunta  agreed  that  they  ought  to  be 
far  finer  for  the  Signorina,  and  suggested 
that   it   might   be   well   for   her  to  go  in 


l86  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

search  of  others  at  Fiesole — or  even  to  the 
city. 

Which  brought  the  Signorina  to  her 
senses. 

"This  is  my  festa,  Assunta,"  said  the 
Signorina,  looking  up  from  the  pile  of 
birthday  letters  and  gifts  on  her  table. 

Assunta,  with  a  copper  water-jar  in  either 
hand,  stopped  short. 

"Truly,  Signorina!  it  is  also  mine!" 
she  exclaimed.  "And  how  many  years 
has  the  Signorina?"  she  asked,  with  in- 
terest. 

"  Twenty-eight." 

The  copper  jars  went  down  to  the  floor. 

"Truly!  How  well  the  Signorina  car- 
ries them ! " 

The  Signorina,  who  never  before  had 
realized  her  antiquity,  felt  actually 
abashed. 

"And  hov/  many  years  have  you,  As- 
sunta? "  she  asked. 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP      187 

"  I  finish  forty,  Signorina." 

In  her  turn  the  Signorina  stared  ;  twelve 
years  only  between  herself  and  the  worn, 
wrinkled,  thin -haired,  almost  toothless 
woman  before  her. 

"Yes,  Signorina,"  went  on  Assunta, 
tranquilly.  "  Forty  years  ago  my  mother 
put  me  in  the  world.  I  was  born  on  the 
roadside,  the  Signorina  remembers,  and 
she  carried  me  home  in  her  apron,  so !  " 
gathering  up  her  blue  apron  to  illustrate. 
Then  letting  it  fall  again  :  "  And  the  Sig- 
norina has  twenty-eight  years !  Who 
would  believe  it?  " 

"I  think  I  should  like  some  very  nice 
strawberries  for  my  fcsta — if  you  can  go  to 
the  city  for  me,"  said  the  Signorina,  to 
change  the  subject. 

"Signorina,  I  am  here  to  obey  you," 
replied  Assunta,  gravely,  in  spite  of  her 
inward  emotion.  A  whole  franc  toward 
the  boots ! 

And  while  she  was  hurrying  down  the 


l88  STORIES    OF    ITALY 

hill  and  over  the  white  road,  the  Signorina, 
in  the  midst  of  her  pretty  gifts  and  the 
pleasant  mood  they  awakened,  was  expe- 
riencing an  unwonted  fit  of  benevolence. 

"  Poor  Assunta!"  she  thought,  "  I  should 
like  to  give  her  something  for  her  festa — 
if  I  were  not  so  poor;"  and  she  fell  to 
wondering  what  in  all  the  world  Assunta 
would  best  like  to  have.  Not  that  edition 
of  Shelley,  surely,  which  had  made  her 
own  eyes  sparkle  with  delight,  nor  yet  the 
dainty  linen  worked  by  dear  hands ;  As- 
sunta wanted  nothing  for  herself 

"  I  know!  "  thought  the  Signorina,  with 
conviction. 

She  went  into  her  room,  and  sitting 
down  before  her  bureau,  drew  out  one  by 
one  the  fourteen  gowns  which  were  its 
contents. 

"  I  will  certainly  do  it,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, and  after  some  pondering  she  selected 
the  plainest  and  the  oldest — a  white  cash- 
mere— and  spread  it  out  on  her  lap. 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP      189 

The  smile  of  satisfaction  deepened  on 
her  lips. 

"  I  should  not  wear  it  six  times  more — 
and  even  if  I  do  miss  it,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, generously,  "I  should  be  willing  to 
make  a  sacrifice  now  and  then.  I  will 
certainly  do  it." 

Her  heart  grew  light.  "How  pleased 
Assunta  will  be  !  "  She  was  so  pleased 
with  herself  for  thinking  of  it,  that  she  shut 
up  the  other  thirteen  gowns  gayly  and 
went  in  to  dinner,  still  smiling.  There  is 
nothing  so  sweet,  the  sages  tell  us,  as  a 
self-approving  conscience. 

One  good  action  begets  another. 

"Does  Gemma  like  strawberries?" 
asked  the  Signorina,  languidly,  as  she  filled 
her  saucer  for  the  third  time,  while  Assunta 
stood  beaming  near. 

"  Chi  lo  sa?"  answered  Assunta,  tran- 
quilly. 

At  this  remarkable  reply  the  Signorina 
raised  her  eyes  in  astonishment. 


I90  STORIES   OF    ITALY 

"  She  has  never  tasted  them,"  explained 
Assunta.  "  They  are  so  dear — the  Signo- 
rina  knows " 

"Never  tasted  them!"  repeated  the 
Signorina.  "Do  not  you  have  fruit — all 
the  fruit  you  want — in  Tuscany?  " 

"  Oh,  there  is  plenty  of  fruit,  Signorina," 
responded  Assunta,  cheeringly,  "but  for 
poor  people  it  costs  too  much.  Some- 
times," she  added,  "  we  have  tasted  figs  ; 
yes,  more  than  once  in  my  life  have  I 
eaten  them  fresh  "  (the  Signorina  had  an 
instant  vision  of  them,  purple  and  luscious, 
and  sixteen  for  a  soldo),  "but  dried — 
never ;  as  for  oranges  and  other  fruits — 
the  Signorina  knows  what  they  cost — I 
and  my  people  have  never  tasted  them. 
Are  not  the  strawberries  good,  that  the 
Signorina  is  leaving  them  ?" 

"  Give  them  to  Gemma,"  said  the  Sig- 
norina, with  a  gesture  of  loathing,  walking 
away. 

Presently  she  returned  with  something 


white  in  her  arms,  but  no  triumph  in  her 
expression. 

"Assunta,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "if 
you  can  use  this  for  GiuHa  " — she  laid  it 
on  the  sofa. 

Assunta  fell  on  her  knees  before  it. 


192  STORIES   OF    ITALY 

"  Don't !  "  said  the  Signorina,  "  don't !  " 
and  she  fled. 

'' Dio  mio  !  Dio  mio  !  "  murmured  As- 
sunta  all  the  way  up  the  hill,  tears  drop- 
ping through  every  smile,  but  not  one 
upon  the  precious  cashmere. 

"  Giulia,  oh,  Giulia!  arrive  below ',  "  she 
shouted  up  the  stairs,  and  then  she  opened 
her  apron. 

Oh,  the  rapture!  Giulia  laughed  and 
cried  for  joy  ;  Delia  rejoiced  unselfishly ; 
Gemma,  coughing  painfully,  came  and 
looked  wistfully — hers  had  not  been  so  fine 
nearly  ;  and  this  would  have  many,  many 
tucks. 

In  their  hearts  all  had  begun  to  de- 
spair, but  now  that  the  dress  had  found 
itself  the  rest  would  surely  follow.  Giulia 
flew  back  to  her  frame,  and  her  fingers 
flew  also  with  fresh  activity  ;  from  time  to 
time  she  crept  away  to  peep  at  the  won- 
derful dress  all  wrapped  away  in  paper, 
and  then  flew  back  again.     Delia  began 


THE  HOUSE   ON    THE   HILL-TOP      I93 

a  new  fan,  and  Gemma — pale  Gemma — 
took  up  the  straw  in  her  thin  fingers  and 
began  to  weave  a  little  basket  for  the  Sig- 
norina.  Even  'Tonio,  on  the  strength  of 
the  great  rejoicing,  crept  back  to  work  the 
next  day  ;  for  he  thought  he  might  at  least 
make  enough  for  shoes  for  the  bambina — 
and  he  did. 

"If  the  Signorina  can  spare  me,"  said 
Assunta,  tremulous  with  pride,  "  Giulia  is 
coming  at  half-past  twenty-one  o'clock  to 
go  to  the  city." 

The  Signorina  looked  up  quickly.  Could 
it  be? 

The  smile  trembling  on  Assunta's  lips 
ran  over  and  overflowed  her  furrowed 
face — one  might  say  her  soul  smiled. 

"  Si,  Signorina,"  she  answered  the 
look;  "we  go  to  buy  the  shoes,  also  the 
stockings,  also  " — her  voice  trembled  with 
this  culminating  triumph — "  the  ribbon." 

The  Signorina  clapped  her  hands. 

' '  Brava  /     Brava  /  ' ' 


194  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

Assunta  moved  softly  and  ecstatically 
about,  doing  her  work;  but  that  her  mind 
was  full  of  its  own  bliss  the  Signorina, 
tripping  steadily  away  and  affecting  to 
hear  nothing,  could  tell. 

"  Beautiful  little  things!  beautiful  little 
things!"  she  could  hear  her  sigh  ecstat- 
ically, as  she  lifted  the  Signorina's  thrice- 
patched  number  fours  and  surveyed  them 
with  lingering  admiration — perhaps  pictur- 
ing a  pair  as  fair  on  Giulia's  feet.  And 
she  spent  a  most  unusual  care  upon  the 
toilet-table  and  all  its  knick-knacks,  as  if 
they  had  a  suddenly  acquired  relation 
through  the  splendors  about  to  be  Giulia's, 

She  kept  that  bright-eyed  and  exultant 
little  maiden  waiting  long  after  the  hour, 
while  she  scrupulously  fulfilled  every  ser- 
vice ;  for  nothing  was  permitted  to  take 
precedence  of  the  Signorina's  comfort. 
At  length,  however,  they  departed,  As- 
sunta quite  stiff  with  importance,  Giulia 
openly  dancing  at  her  side.    They  walked, 


THE  HOUSE  ON   THE  HILL-TOP      I95 

of  course  ;  for  who  could  dream  of  spend- 
ing twice  eighty  centimes  on  a  tram  ? — 
and  what  were  six  miles — with  the  boots 
at  their  end!  Giulia  looked  about  her 
secretly  at  the  Piazza — she  would  have 
liked  Tesita  to  see  her  going  to  the  city 
to  shop,  just  like  a  signorina ;  but  Tesita 
was  not  there. 

The  Signorina  could  scarcely  wait  for 
the  next  morning,  but  when  it  came  she 
had  her  question  out  almost  before  she 
heard  the  door  open. 

"The  boots — are  they  beautiful,  As- 
sunta  ?     And  the  ribbon  ?  " 

"  ^  they  are  beautiful,  Signorina! — 
five  lire  they  cost  me  in  Florence !  And 
the  stockings,  Signorina  ! — beautiful  black 
ones  for  half  a  lira !  As  for  the  ribbon — 
two  metres  and  a  half— so  wide,  a  franc 
and  a  half.  Giulia  is  pazza,  pazza  with 
joy ! — and  the  sarta  finishes  the  dress  at 
this  hour — the  Signorina  will  see  if  it  is 
beautiful !  " 


ig6  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

"And  Gemma — and  'Tonio  ?  "  asked 
the  Signorina,  smiling. 

Alas  !  why  had  she  asked  ! 

Assunta  found  her  voice  in  a  moment. 

"  Chilo  sa,  Signorina?  "  she  said,  sadly  ; 
"  the  Gemma  stays  in  bed  this  morning." 

"  And  'Tonio  ?  " 

"'Tonio  also  stays  in  bed;  the  good 
and  the  bad  come  always  together — it  is 
necessary  to  have  patience." 

"  Tesita  also  is  ill,"  announced  Assunta, 
later  in  the  day.     "  She  has  the  ///"<?." 

"Ah!  I  hope  she  is  not  very  ill,"  re- 
plied the  Signorina. 

"It  would  be  better  that  she  should 
die,"  said  Assunta,  with  sorrowful  stern- 
ness. "  When  a  girl  stays  on  the  streets 
it  is  better  that  she  dies  ;  she  will  come 
to  nothing  good.  There  are  persons  who 
will  do  anything  for  money."  Then  her 
indignation  melting  into  a  smile,  she 
added: 

♦'  The  Signorina  will  not  forget  that  she 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE    HILL-TOP      I97 

has    promised — to-morrow    at    eight    she 
will  be  in  the  Duomo  ?  " 

"  She  will  not  forget,  Assunta  ;  she  will 
be  there." 

It  had  come  at  last,  the  g^eat  day  ;  and, 
for  a  miracle  of  miracles,  rain  came  not 
with  it.  Up  on  the  hill-top  they  were  stir- 
ring with  the  daylight,  for  how  was  it  pos- 
sible to  sleep  with  those  boots  in  plain 
sight  and  the  knowledge  of  that  gown  in 
the  drawer? 

Giulia  flew  from  room  to  room,  but  not 
more  excitedly  than  her  mother  and  Deha. 
The  whole  family  convened  to  assist  at  the 
ceremony  of  dressing,  and  as  article  after 
article  went  on,  Assunta,  standing  by,  cal- 
culated the  cost.  That  added  immensely 
to  the  impressiveness. 

First  the  beautiful  black  stockings : 
"Half  a  franc,"  murmured  Assunta, 
breathlessly,  as  they  were  drawn  on,  slow- 
ly, without  a  jerk  or  a  pull,  lest  they  should 


198  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

tear.  Then  the  boots — miles  too  large  and 
quite  shapeless,  for  who  would  be  so  in- 
credibly reckless  as  to  buy  boots  for  five 
francs  only  large  enough  for  a  foot  as  it  is, 
and  take  no  thought  for  next  year  or  the 
year  after  ?  They  had  patent  leather  tips, 
however,  and  Giulia  could  hardly  stand  up 
in  them  for  pride.  Then  came  the  skirt, 
with  many  tucks  and  all  the  fulness  in 
front,  as  Fiesolan  dresses  are  wont  to  have 
it ;  and  the  waist,  also  tucked  in  every 
possible  direction,  lengthwise  and  breadth- 
wise, to  allow  for  the  years  of  letting  out 
and  down ;  naturally,  one  could  not  hope 
to  have  a  second  gown  like  this. 

"  Three  francs  for  the  sarta  and  half  a 
franc  for  the  buttons,"  commented  As- 
sunta,  as  Delia  fastened  them  ;  for  Giulia's 
fingers  were  useless,  they  shook  so. 

Then  the  veil :  a  splendid  square  of  cur- 
tain muslin,  falling  quite  to  the  bottom  of 
the  short  skirt  and  gathered  full  about  the 
rosy  face  under  the  ribbon  garland. 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP      I99 

"  Two  metres  and  a  half — a  franc  and  a 
half  it  cost,"  murmured  Assunta. 

There  was  yet  something  lacking,  the 
white  cotton  gloves  Gemma  had  worn  three 
years  before.  Immensely  large  they  made 
Giulia's  slender  brown  hands  look,  and 
the  fingers  were  worn  through,  but  still 
they  were  truly  magnificent. 

They  all  stood  off  and  gazed. 

At  last! 

"Ten  lire  and  a  half  I  spent  for  it!" 
said  Assunta,  with  a  sigh  of  unutterable 
content.  "  How  much  it  is  beautiful — 
Qiianto  e  bclla!  " 

"  Quatito  e  bella!  "  The  Signorina  said 
the  same  words  an  hour  later,  as  she 
entered  the  dim  and  still  Duomo  from 
the  morning  sunlight,  and  the  sixteen 
little  boys  and  twelve  little  brides  of 
Heaven  carried  up  their  flowers  to  the 
Madonna. 

Nearly  all  Fiesole  was  there,  and  not 
only  priests  and   acolytes   in  due  profu- 


STORIES    OF   ITALY 


sion,  but  a  bishop  and  an  archbishop  in 
white  and  gold  before  the  altar. 

The  little  brides  knelt  on  one  side  and 
the  little  boys  on  the  other,  and  twenty- 
eight  pairs  of  small  hands  in  gloves  rested 
on  the  chancel  railing ;  while  twenty-eight 
heads  bent  devoutly,  with  now  and  then  a 
furtive  side-glance  at  one's  veil  to  be  sure 
it  was  down,  or  at  one's  ribbons  to  be  sure 
they  were  still  there. 

The  Bishop  prayed  and  the  archbishop 
exhorted ;  then  the  archbishop  prayed 
and  the  bishop  exhorted ;  and  finally, 
after  all  the  ceremony  had  been  duly  ob- 
served, the  sixteen  little  boys  went  up  two 
by  two  and  knelt  to  receive  the  holy  wafer. 
Then  came  the  turn  of  the  twelve  little 
brides,  and  the  prettiest  of  them  all  was 
Assunta's  Giulia  in  the  much-tucked  dress, 
with  the  beautiful  boots  creaking  as  she 
went,  and  the  long  veil  fluttering  about 
the  rosy  face,  sweetly  serious  for  the  mo- 
ment  and   forgetful   of  all   her   finery,    I 


STORIES    OF   ITALY 


really  think.  The  huge  cotton  gloves  were 
devoutly  folded  over  a  white  prayer-book, 
lent  for  the  occasion.    And  as  they  went, 

"  Verbum  caro,  panem  verum 
Verbo  carnem  efficit, 
Fitque  Sanguis  Christi  merum 

Et  si  sensus  deficit : 
Ad  firmandum  cor  sincerum 
Sola  fides  sufficit," 

rose  the  voices  all  about  them. 

Eight  small  brides  had  knelt  and  risen  ; 
now  it  was  Giulia's  turn.  The  Signorina 
leaned  forward  ;  two  little  figures  knelt ; 
the  archbishop  popped  something  into 
two  rosy  mouths,  opened  like  a  bird's  to 
be  fed ;  then  two  little  figures  rose  and 
the  next  two  advanced.  The  great  mo- 
ment was  over  ;  Giulia  had  taken  her  first 
communion,  and — 

"  O  Salutaris  Hostia  !  qui  coeli  pandis  ostia  !  " 

sang  the  voices  softly. 

But  all  was  not  over  ;  not  until  each  had 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE   HILL-TOP      203 

received  a  silver  crucifix  (to  wear  until 
one's  second  communion,  eight  days  later) , 
a  pictured  saint's  card,  a  medal  with  a 
pink  ribbon  which  the  archbishop  himself 
threw  over  the  bent  heads  and  the  mam- 
mas and  sisters  stealthily  adjusted  from 
behind;  and,  last  of  all,  a  loaf  of  conse- 
crated bread  to  take  home  for  the  collazione 
after  the  service.  Then  the  archbishop 
blessed  the  little  flock,  and  everyone 
pressed  forward  to  see  the  little  boys  and 
the  brides,  but  especially  the  brides,  be- 
cause they  were  so  much  more  fine  to  see  ; 
and  so,  all  whispering  and  admiring,  the 
crowd  poured  from  the  Duomo,  not  for- 
getting to  cross  one's  self  with  holy  water 
at  the  font. 

Giulia,  escorted  by  a  group  of  admiring 
friends,  walked  demurely,  casting  a  glance 
to  see  if  haply  Tesita  was  witnessing  her 
triumph  ;  but  Tesita  was  not  there.  The 
Signorina,  however,  was  there  and  stopped 
to    admire    everything — from     the    white 


204 


STORIES   OF   ITALY 


gown  and  veil  to  the  crucifix  and  medal. 
Then  they  started  up  the  hill,  the  little 
bride  blushing  with  pleasure  and  modesty, 


her  hands  demurely  clasping  the  l)ook  and 
all  her  train  following.  As  they  went  up 
on  one  side,  another  little  procession  came 
down  on  the  other — black-masked  Brothers 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   HILL-TOP     205 

of  Mercy  carrying  a  small  black  bier. 
Everyone  stepped  aside  to  let  them  pass, 
and  Giulia  crossed  herself  twice,  like  a 
pious  little  maiden,  once  at  the  crucifix, 
once  at  the  bier.  But  nobody  dreamed  it 
was  Tesita  going  by  in  such  state,  until 
the  next  day,  when  rosy  Annina  appeared 
on  the  piazza  with  Beppe  and  lisped  out, 
"  SigJiorine — poverino  !"  in  funny  imita- 
tion of  Tesita.  It  was,  however,  "a 
pr ovi den za, "  Assunia  declared  then,  "for 
it  was  certain  she  would  have  come  to 
nothing  good." 

Far  from  any  thought  of  Tesita,  Giulia 
sped  on  up  the  steep  hill  till  the  little 
house  came  in  sight ;  and  there  on  the 
threshold,  with  such  a  face  as  the  angels 
may  wear,  stood  Assunta,  watching  the 
triumph  of  her  child. 

The  little  bride,  finery  and  all,  flew  into 
her  arms  ;  oh,  it  had  been  so  beautiful! 

Assunta  turned  her  beaming  eyes  upon 
the  group.     The  Signorina  had  kept  her 


206  STORIES   OF   ITALY 

promise.  She  had  seen  it  all — the  pro- 
cession to  the  Madonna — the  archbishop 
— all;  and  it  was  beautiful,  non  e  vero? 
Perhaps  she  had  even  seen  the  bambina 
take  her  communion,  at  the  very  moment 
itself. 

The  very  precise  moment,  even  to  the 
opening  and  shutting  of  the  rosy  mouth  ; 
it  had  been  most  beautiful,  and 

"Oh,  Assunta,  Assunta !  "  exclaimed 
the  Signorina,  taking  the  hard  hand  in 
hers,  with  sorrowful  passion,  "why  were 
you  not  there  ?  " 

Assunta  laughed,  a  little,  short,  happy, 
shame-faced  laugh. 

"Oh,  Signorina  mia  !  "  she  said,  de- 
precatingly ;  "in  this  gown  and  these 
boots!  how  was  it  possible?  Rut  it  was 
truly  beautiful,  was  it  not?"  she  added, 
gleefully.  "And  the  Signorina  saw  my 
bambina  ;  "  her  eyes  rested  proudly  on 
the  small  white  figure  holding  court  in 
the  dingy  room. 


THE   HOUSE   ON    THE    HILL-TOP     207 

Never  was  such  a  day  !  To  be  sure, 
there  was  no  collation — it  had  been  man- 
ifestly impossible  to  compass  that ;  but 
the  neighbors  came  flocking  all  day  long 
to  admire  and  declare  that  within  memory 
there  had  not  been  a  prettier  communi- 
cant— no,  nor  one  that  deserved  better. 

'Tonio  sat  proudly  by,  and  Gemma, 
propped  up  among  pillows,  listened  and 
shared  unenviously  in  her  little  sister's 
triumph,  while  Delia  ran  about  waiting 
on  everybody.  As  for  Assunta,  she  only 
stood  and  smiled  and  smiled.  Never  was 
such  a  day ! 

But  the  longest  and  the  happiest  day 
must  end  at  last,  and  presently  the  white 
gown  was  taken  off— oh,  how  carefully — 
and  folded  away  against  the  festa  of  Cor- 
pus Domini,  and  the  veil  was  also  laid 
away,  and  the  fine  prayer-book  sent  home, 
while  the  beautiful  boots  were  stood  on 
the  bureau  where  everyone  could  look  at 
them. 


208  STORIES   OF    ITALY 

Then  the  soft  night  of  Tuscany  came 
down — luminous  and  fragrant  and  ahve 
with  silence — and  everybody  slept. 

Tesita,  alone  for  the  first  time  in  her 
hfe  in  the  stanza  morluaria,  slept  with 
wide-open  eyes  and  the  sound  of  slowly 
dripping  water  near  by.  And  in  the  house 
on  the  hill-top,  worn  out  with  excitement, 
all  slept.  'Tonio,  forgetful  of  his  rheu- 
matism, and  tired  Delia,  and  even  Gemma 
ceasing  to  cough  for  a  time,  lay  sleeping 
with  the  little  red-stained  handkerchief  in 
her  hot  hand.  In  the  other  room  Giulia, 
clasping  the  silver  crucifix,  dreamed  that 
it  was  already  Corpus  Domini.  But  As- 
sunta,  a  smile  of  fathomless  content  still 
on  her  thin  lips,  slept  dreamlessly — the 
sleep  of  profound  exhaustion. 

Only  the  Signorina  down  in  the  villa 
could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  many 
things. 


B    000  002  129     5 


•<   !< 


;--'.,;'r5>.'j 


m 


